Rabelais High (cont'd 1)

Rabelais High (cont'd 1)

       by Migh-hinded Slugless Hork-Damm

              zeus might

                                     be tempted

                                               

                                                                                          by my thoughts

Norman thought how he'd be sleepy in school. He'd miss school, maybe. Grade twelve was not an awful lot of fun. Everything was bland. Math, for instance. The same problem sheets pulled out by Mr. Piqueabu that he'd used for ten years or more. They were designed to take you fifty minutes and then the bell. Or English. They'd done one serious writing assignment and it was already April. How could he learn to write? Mr. Pubesier spoke in a French Canadian accent like the ref in Slapshot and Shakespeare was intolerable through his lips. Not only that, but Pube loved to hear himself talk. He hated marking papers, Pube had long ago decided, and that was why he talked so much. Big guy, snarfy breath like rancid mixed nuts and bad mustard on good days. He belonged to every school committee, salaries, drama productions, sports, but he wouldn't give writing assignments because he was too lazy to mark them. Shit, what a bland and stupidly thoughtless place, Rabelais.

       Had Rabelais High been the product of its namesake it would have had the following things going on, Norman imagined. In administration there would be principals screwing students, secretaries hiding twenty-fours under their desks, vice-principals making a bit of extra cash selling home grown to the kids and dogs and cats kept in places incongruous and without apparent reason. Among students there would be the easy trading of assignments for substantial fees that allowed another to make payments on a Porsche if he were a solid writer. Walls about the schools would be erected of erected things and folded things as in that infamous one around that infamous town Gargantua infamously describes. Invaders from enemy territories would run into a soft mass of distraction, which would ease their interest in fighting while tightening their interest in something else. A student, too, could then look out windows whenever Wentworth's endless etymologies in Latin overcame him or her. Outside there would be p and c enough to disturb even the most enuchian among the nerdy computer types, and irrigate even the least coy among the sophomores. Now, students, too, would involve themselves in the world of barter and trade. Commerce would be and is natural to us, Norman thought. Diamonds maybe not, but food, steaks, clothes, rings and bracelets, books stolen or bought, sold at reduced prices, home-made wine and beer would be traded openly from the backs of family station wagons and the trunks of cars. Wars would be fought with spear and sword, pen and paper, bludgeon and catapult, whatever weapons the literature of the day recommended to the imagination. So, for instance, if Winnie and Wanda were at it again over the affections of Roy, pies could be made available to them and a tournament of sorts arranged. Two or more boys could be their horses, bras and panties could be armor, and the horses' hands clasped around buttocks could be saddles. Now, when the sidelines were peopled, and the mounts mounted and saddles firmly sat upon and adjusted, the signal could be given by the president of the IVCF (Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship) and the fight begin.

       Pies would be made available much like Gatorade is provided for runners by hands out-held over the track. A pie flung would require a pie replaced, without either of the lovely ones dismounting and losing time thereby. Soon pies would litter the tourny grounds, cream dripping from creamy skin, and Winnie's hair flying behind her covered in chocolate and caramel. What a distraction that would be for students tired of old Jackson's Chemistry, young Whigmug's Physics and Snarbuckle's Health and Guidance. Yes, that would make Rabelais High tolerable, Norman thought to himself as he lay in bed at 3:30 Tuesday night. 
       The good preacher needs to frequent ghettos, pubs, pool halls, racing tracks, clubhouses, gang hideouts and brothels as well. He must not restrict his activities to the comfortable. The members of his congregations do require much care and affection from their shepherd, but that should not keep him from freeing up time on a regular basis for the underprivileged.

(to be continued)