Principal Harwood's Post-Bakesale Speech to the High School PTA

As you may have heard on the local news, we recently had a bake sale sponsored by the Art Department.

As you may have heard on the national news, some of the baked goods in the sale were, well, goods that could get you baked.

Let me be the first to tell you that from now on, we will be more weary of labels such as "Crippling Chip Cookies" or "Buzznana Bread" and especially "Pot Stickies." And any brownies that sell for over ten dollars each will be collected and tested for marijuana.

Unfortunately, several of the students and even the faculty managed to consume the afflicted sweets. In fact, only the diabetics and anorexics avoided the bake sale.

And regretfully, the bake sale took place near the end of the grading period. So if there's confusion with your student's status sheet, know that we usually don't give smiley faces, peace signs and check marks for grades. Once we manage to retrieve all of the record books from the swimming pool and air ducts, we'll have accurate grade reports sent directly to your homes.

For those of you not in attendance at Friday night's football game, it's necessary for you to know we had to forfeit. Half of the football team didn't even show up because they were passed out in their cars. And the other half were giggling at Sponge Bob Square Pants in the locker room. Only it wasn't really Sponge Bob. It was our mascot Terry the Tuna. We're going to need another fundraiser to get money for a new mascot costume. Part of Terry got eaten.

I am glad to report, though, that concession sales at the football game were at an all-time high. Wait, not a high! I mean they were the best we've ever seen.

The band also had a performance at an elementary school on Friday afternoon. It went surprisingly well. They didn't play "Stars and Stripes Forever" like they usually do, but they did play the entire Pink Floyd album "The Wall." Although Mr. Bartose, the band teacher, swears he's never taught them any of those songs. Man, isn't our band is talented!

I also have to report that there isn't going to be a school paper this week. It went to the printers on Friday and when we got it on Monday morning, all twelve pages were blank except for the front where someone had written "What are you going to do for me meow?" The date had also been changed to April twentieth even though this is October. We promise to have a paper next week that's more accurate and full of content.

Some good news, though, is that there wasn't a single fight or student sent to my office all day on Friday. Other than the incesant giggling in the halls, everyone was on their best behavior.

And that about does it. But before I conclude, I must add that I don't know who specifically brought each item to the bake sale. I've also gotten several messages asking how these items were made. I don't know the recipes, but know that we're doing out best to make sure other students don't know. We appreciate your concern and we're on it.

Now, here's Vice President Centerly with the updated dress code.

Today, I'm going to be a total jerk wad.

I'm going to drive like I'm racing and cut off every Honda I see. I'm also going to cut off every blue car, every truck and anything with four plus wheels (unless it has two, then I'll cut it off for not having enough wheels).

If it's raining, I'm going to tailgate every vehicle that ends up in front of me. And I'm going to speed like I've got a football player in the back of a white Bronco.

Red lights might as well be green because I'm going to pay no attention. And if a car gets in front of me and stops at a red light (or stop sign or for a fire truck) I'm going to lay on my horn like the sound is keeping me alive. If time permits, I'm going to give the other driver the double bird and set his head on fire with my stare.

Today, I'm going to shout at the grocery store cashier for a price being incorrect. It doesn't matter that the cashier won't in any way be at fault for the mislabeled salsa. And I'm not going to give a crap that the price was only off by fifty cents. You know why? Because the twenty seconds it takes the cashier to find the proper price will absolutely ruin my day. My time is valuable. In that twenty seconds, I could have scratched my ass or caught the first verse of some song on the radio in the car.

And the cashier is only a lowly human anyway. Any person working a register has to be completely incompetent.

Today, I'm going to blast music in my apartment as loudly as I can. Even if it's midnight and a week night, you bet everyone within fifty feet of my apartment will rock their arms off to "Enter Sandman" by Metallica. Everyone loves Metallica, and if they don't, they'll get over it.

After all, I just got two new subwoofers that need breaking in. And Metallica is so much better at full volume. Anything less is an insult.

Today, I'm going to toss my coffee cup in the general vacinity of a trash can. But that's it. If it lands in the trash can, fine. If not, I don't care. Someone else will pick it up, like some juvenile delinquent with court-appointed civic duty. Besides, I've got better things to do than touch garbage. And once my coffee is gone from the cup, it's officially garbage and not my problem.

Today, I'm going to glare at a child, complain about a stranger who will do nothing offensive and bitch some stranger out about a late fee that I'm completely responsible for but don't want to pay.

Today, I'm going to be a total and complete asshole.

Just because I can.

And tomorrow, hopefully, someone will pull me into a dark ally and forcibly remove the giant branch from my ass.

An apologetic letter to Peyton Manning.

Dear Peyton Manning,

Although we've never met, I feel the need to apologize to you on behalf of my mother. Alebit, she's not apologizing for her behavior.

What is that behavior exactly? Well, Pey (mind if I call you Pey?) my mother is obsessed with you and I think she may be stalking you.

A year or two ago when you started getting really popular (and I apologize because I know nothing of sports, you or your career except that you play soccer* or something and you're in some commercials; other than that, nothing) my mom started watching whatever team you're on. And she continues to watch that team. But it's not so much the team she watches; it's you. I called her the other day and she literally said, "Peyton's on. I've gotta go." And then she hung up on me.

She hung up on me, Peyton Manning! And it's your fault.

She even wears a jersey with your name and number on it while watching. This is a woman who didn't even want to go to her daughter's high school graduation because 'it wasn't a big deal.' But oh! She'll ignore her own offspring to watch you throw a ball. You'd better be the best damn thrower ever, Pey. Cause you're taking my mom from me!

Here's the real kicker, though. (Ha, kicker. That'd be really funny if you were a kicker. Are you a kicker?). She wants to find you and meet you because (and I have nothing to do with this) she wants you to marry me.

So before you're tackled in the grocery store by some strange, crazy lady named Susan (not to frighten you, but she's getting good with the internet and I think she knows where you shop) I want you to know that I have nothing to do with this. It's nothing personal. But I really have no interest in meeting you. I'm sure you're really nice, but there's just nothing there. Plus I think you're married, but Mom doesn't seem to care.

I really think that she wants to marry you but her husband wouldn't allow it. You know, polygamy isn't exactly the norm.

Anyway, her obsession goes deeper than just jersies and dreams of NFL grandbabies.

One day while I was at work (and this is a true story, I've got witnesses) a thirty-page fax gets dumped on my desk. First off, I had no idea that I even was able to get faxes. Second, it was a deck all about you. Stories, stats, facts. There were parts she's underlined and highlighted. She even added notes ("he's such a nice boy, see!"). Third, I had no idea that she even liked you or, for that matter, liked you for me.

So I call my cousin who's in sports (baseball) and he tells me that Mom had been harassing him to get into contact with you so you and I could get married. Because the mere fact that my cousin is in sports means that he just has your phone number.

Seriously. That's the logic.

She has some crazy plan, I just know it. She won't tell me the details, but I'm sure it involves you, me, a pool hall and a short, leather skirt. I'm not going to let this happen. I can't wear a leather skirt! It's too eighties.

Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads up. Perhaps let you get another body guard (although my mom is pretty harmless, I think).

I'm sure nothing will ever come of this and you can go on doing what you do on the turf and I can go on doing what I do on not-turf.

Again I apologize. Feel flattered. She hasn't been this obsessed with hooking me up since 8 years ago when she thought Prince William and I'd be perfect together. She even had invitations picked out.

Good luck in your game tomorrow, Pey. Score a homerun** and make my mom proud!

* It's only called "foot ball" in Brazil.
** That's when you knock all of the pins over.

Birds are racist.

No one else was going to say it. So I took the liberty upon myself.

Birds are racist. All of them. Cardinals hang with cardinals. Pigeons chill with pigeons. And mockingbirds, please! They'd never fraternize with a lowly duck.

There's truth to the phrase "birds of a feather stick together." It should be "birds are freakin' racist sons of mother pluckers."

I've thought long and hard about this. I've paid careful attention to the feathered wildlife around the city. Birds of one race refuse to acknowledge birds of another race.

The only exception is the bluejay. But those bastards are self-loathing racists. They play packrat with other birds' eggs. Racist!

I can't, though, figure out why birds are so blatently hateful. Dogs aren't that way. Labradors will canoodle with poodles and chihuahuas love weiner dogs. Cats aren't racist, either. Black cats and white cats and brown cats and pink cats all live in perfect, calicoed harmony. But those birds! Put a mockingbird in a cage with a sparrow and all hells gonna break loose.

The only harmony among different bird races seems to take place near ponds or on farms. Geese and ducks seem to be accepting of each other's existance. And chickens will run around with anything, but they're kind of dumb.

BUT birds of different races don't live together. A pigeon would never bring his hummingbird girlfriend home to meet his parents because a pigeon would never hook-up with a hummingbird. BECAUSE BIRDS ARE RACIST!

Do birds crossbread? I've never heard of it. I've never seen a half-dove-half-swallow. Have you? NO!

The insanity must stop. We'll start with the birds. Then it's on to the fish.

Oh, yes. This problem goes as deep as the ocean, my friends.

Oh, Puberty, you oily, hairy, evil beast.

Unlike most, I bloomed very late
And this always makes me hesitate
When a boy asks me out on a date.

For me, puberty is hard
And awkward and makes me a lard
(Mainly since there's now grass on the yard).

Growing and changing is quite a chore.
I don't want to do it anymore
Especially since I'm twenty-four!

This is what I've learned about parking lot etiquette.

I've been licensed by the grand ol' state of Texas to operate a motor vehicle for nearly a decade now, and I've noticed a thing or two.

So I've decided to record my observations here for future drivers. After all, this is stuff they don't teach you in driver's ed.

The goal in every parking lot is to find a place to park your vehicle (hence the 'parking' name).

Parking lot etiquette is not a constant, though. Rules vary from parking lot to parking lot. Here you'll find common types of parking lots and the appropriate legalities and essentials of survival in each particular one.

Shopping Malls in December

In large, busy parking lots such as the local mall, certain cars are allowed spots over other cars. The hierarchy is determined soley on window decals and bumper stickers. The order is as follows:
- Anything of the Christian persuasion: If you don't love Jesus, you don't deserve to shop during the holidays. Period.
- Anything with a children's sport: Because athletic children deserve more presents over other children. That and athletic childrens' parents are (vicariously) famous, therefore they have celebrity status and they shouldn't walk as far as the common folk.
- Anything with Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) peeing on anything: You don't want to fight these people. Unless Jesus is on your side or your kid plays peewee soccer. Only then do you stand a chance.
- Anything political/war/troop related: These people have guns in their cars. If Jesus, an athletic child or Calvin are on your side, you're bullet proof. If not, yield and yield quickly.

If a vehicle ignores the hierarchy and pulls into a spot, the other vehicle/party is allowed to ram the offending car. Every collison should be followed by flippin' the bird, honking the horn and yelling "Merry f*ck*ng Christmas, d*ckh**d!" Then, the wronged party should peel out and hit at least four other vehicles while exiting the scene.


Catholic Parking Lots (Sundays Only)

All bets are off. Every driver for him/herself. No matter what crime/offense you commit in a Catholic parking lot, you can be forgiven for it later in confession. Thus the beauty of the Catholic faith- a few Hail Maries and you're as good as new.

For extra protection from Hell, make sure a rosary is hanging from your rearview mirror. Or keep a small bible in your glove box.

When an available spot is seen and two drivers are trying to get it, using God's name in vain, threats of bodily harm and even vehicular manslaughter are all perfectly acceptable. UNLESS you harm an alter boy. That's the priest's job; don't take that away from him.


Grocery Stores

If a person is not in a vehicle (pushing a cart, carrying bags, walking from a vehicle to the store, etc.) he/she is a target if he/she is in the way of a prime spot. Running over a pedestrian is completely legal and okay. In the event of major harm, you are allowed to collect the injured person's groceries and put them in your own car. Calling an ambulance is unnecessary. They have no right of way in grocery lots.

If it is raining, feel free to park in the NO PARKING/EMERGENCY FIRE LANE. Rain is an emergency. You don't want your plastic grocery bags getting wet.

Handicapped spots are reserved for Mercedes and Yukons only. No handicapped plate/ID is required.


College/Universities

If you are a university student and own a car and have a parking permit from your university/college, your car is under no circumstance allowed in a university lot. You vehicle will be towed, smashed into a cube and incinerated if it remains on the premises for more than 37 seconds.


Parking Garages

There is only one rule for parking garages- take up as much space as possible.

If your vehicle is huge, park it in the smallest spot you can find.

If you're in a small, two-seater sports car, park sideways and take up two spots. Three spots is ideal, though.

If you see a vehicle that's parked perfectly between the lines and it appears that the driver/passengers have ample room to enter/exit the vehicle, park as closely as possible. This person has no right to be able to open the doors. Their punishment shall be to enter their vehicle through the trunk/back door or wait for you to leave.


AND A GENERAL RULE FOR ANY PARKING SITUATION: If the vehicle you park next to looks like the owner goes to great lengths to maintain it, be sure to smash your door into that car as hard as possible. If it's December, do it twice. You can also steal the antenna if you'd like. They make great play swords.

A day in the life of a restaurant ketchup bottle.

Sigh.

My life is pretty simple. I sit on a Chili's table and people squeeze* me over their fries and burgers. Sometimes, a rubbery steak.

Once someone sqeezed me over a salad. Thought that was kind of odd.

But I mainly just sit here on this table in this Chili's restaurant. Every day, some angry teenager tops me off with more ketchup. The old stuff never seems to get emptied out. Seriously. I've got 6 month old ketchup in me. It must have solidified by now. It's either a tomato again or it has fermented into chunky moonshine. If I'm lucky, the greasy fingerprints get wiped off of me.

I like it when the blonde chick tops me off. She has warm hands. And she usually moves me to a different table. I like the booths by the window. I can see the highway from table thirteen. Sometimes I pretend I have legs and arms. In my fantasy, I grab the nearest steak knife and bust the window. Then I sprint to my freedom and to the amusement park across the street. There I'd be the main ketchup bottle at one of those concession stands. Aw, that'd be the life. Living outdoors, getting squirted on hotdogs and pretzels.

But alas, that's only a fantasy. Instead I'm trapped in family-restaurant Hell.

Once a baby grabbed me and sucked a good amount of ketchup out before her sloth of a mother noticed. "Jamie, put that dow-un. I say-ed put tha-at dow-un!" She screeched for a good seventeen seconds before she realized the kid COULDN'T SPEAK ENGLISH YET!

Little kids suck, too. Instead of enjoying the ketchup on food, they seem to enjoy making art out of it. I'm wasted on napkins and table tops. Although, one kid did create a fantastic work of a tree and some birds. There was even a flower with a smiley face. That was nice. I usually just get sqeezed for the purpose of making pointless squirlies and sqiggles. The busboys wipes the ketchup away with disguist. He hates me. I know it.

You know who has it good? Dressing cups. Ranch, for example, is special. It comes out in those little cups. You have to ask for extra ranch because it's a priveledge. Ketchup, though, gets left out in the open to be fondled and shoved around and wasted.

I shouldn't complain, though. After all, I could be one of those little half & half cups. Once they've been used, life is over. That and half & half tastes like crap. At least ketchup is delicious.

*I know. Chili's uses glass bottle that you can't squeeze. Guess what? THIS ISN'T REAL!