TMI Thursday - A Dump At School

Back in the sixties and seventies I was a route-salesman (and eventually a supervisor) for the Atlanta Coca Cola Bottling Co. Over the years I had routes from rural small towns, mom and pop type places and businesses to working routes in downtown Atlanta. Cool job and cool people I worked with along the way.

I’ve had bottles explode on me in the hot summer heat and I have pulled glass out of my arm, hands and legs. Nothing serious, only a few stitches a couple of times. I have seen women giving men blow jobs while riding down I-85 and I-20. I have watched men masturbate from the cab of my truck. One time this guy pulled beside me and kept even with me while he beat off. Pissed me off, so when he started getting faster and short stroking it, I swerved my truck to the left and watched him cum and trying to drive across the grassy medium sideways. Probably the best orgasm he ever had. But I never received any Christmas Cards from him, so I don’t know for sure.

In running the routes, I made deliveries to grammar (or elementary) schools, high schools, Christian, Catholic and Jewish schools and private institutes. Sometimes I would set up the routes so that I could eat lunch in the cafeteria of the various schools. That was back in the day when they actually cooked and served hot, decent lunches for the kids. The teachers and guest (sometimes a parent or two would drop by for a teacher/parent lunch) ate the same food as the kids. Imagine that happening now days.

And sometimes nature would take it’s course and I would have to use the bathroom. If it urge came upon me at a high school, I could go to the boys room. But if I was at a grammar school I would look for a ‘Men’s Room’ because the toilets in the boys room was so small it was like a freefall setting down and I had to look between my knees. So a teachers break room was best.

This day I couldn’t find the men’s room, just a door that said ‘Teachers Only.’ So I went in and began my downloads. I don’t know why I didn’t lock the door. Don’t ask! Don’t know! But anyways, about a minute later this lady teacher came in. She didn’t notice me (though I would have thought the smell would have cause her to look or something - gag maybe) and started taking her blouse off. I had started to say something like, “I’m in here.” or “Excuse me!” or “Wanta wipe my ass for me?” or something, but when I looked thought the space between the door and the partition I saw that she was taking off her blouse. So I thought it better to be quiet and see what was going to happen.

She let her blouse hang from her waist and turned on the water and started to wash off her boobs and neck. I guess she had been outside for recess and was freshening up. Anynipple, she reached in her bra and adjusted her boobs, tugged on her bra to pull it down into place (I guess) and then grabbed her tits on the sides and pushed them up. Looked at them for a second and then put her blouse back on. Leaned over, wiped under her eye, turned and walked out of the room.

I then let out my breath (I had just realized I was holding it) and relaxed with my forearms on my knees. Suddenly I figured I had pushed my luck a bit too far so I loaded up and got the hell out of there. But I have to admit, Best Damn Shit I ever had.

Redneck Monday - Redneck Logic

REDNECK LOGIC:

Two rednecks, ‘Catfish’ Ledbetter and Bubba Brown (son of Buster), are sitting at their favorite bar, drinking beer.

‘Catfish’ turns to Bubba and says, “You know, I'm tired of going through life without an education. Tomorrow I think I'll go to the Community College and sign up for some classes.”

Bubba thinks it's a good idea, and the two leave.

The next day, ’Catfish’ goes down to the college and meets Dean of Admissions, who signs him up for the four basic classes: Math, English, History, and Logic.

“Logic?” says. “What 's that?”

The dean says, “I'll give you an example. Do you own a weed eater?”


“Yeah.”

“Then logically speaking, because you own a weed eater, I think that you would have a yard.”

“That's true , I do have a yard .”

“I'm not done,” the dean says. “Because you have a yard, I think logically that you would have a house.”

“Yep, I do have a house.”

“And because you have a house, I think that you might logically have a family.”

“Dang! Yes, I have a family.”

“So because you have a family, then logically I believe you must have a wife. And because you have a wife, then logic tells me you must be a heterosexual.”

“Oh yes, I am a heterosexual. That's amazing, you were able to find out all of that because I have a weed eater.”

Excited to take the class now, ’Catfish’ shakes the Dean's hand and leaves to go meet Bubba at the bar. He tells Bubba about his classes, how he is signed up for Math, English, History, and Logic.

“Logic?” Bubba says, “What's that?”

‘Catfish’ says, 'I'll give you an example. Do you have a weed eater?”

“No!”

“Then you're a queer, ain’t’cah!”

AND...

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Skipping School

 
I sent this as a comment to one of my blog peeps (Blueeyedtawni) in response to her post about some parents accidentally catching their kids skipping school.

I’m not proud of this – well not totally – but back when I was single, and at my lowest point in life, I was dating a married woman with three kids (2 boys and a bitch…uh…girl.)

She had left the husband and they were living with me. One day the boys skipped school. I worked the third shift back then so I was home, and mama was off, hiding from her hubby.

One day the boys skipped school and the school called. We went looking for them and found them on their bicycles. Every time I tried to walk up to them, they would ride off laughing. I did this four or five times. I finally said fuck it.

I went back to my truck, got my gun and went walking back to where they had stopped and were waiting on me. The mom was scramming for me not to shoot them. Mom’s do that ya know. They don’t dole out discipline but they freak when you try to shoot their kids.

When I got close I told them not of move and showed them the gun. They laughed and said fuck you and took off.

I fired two shots that hit beside their bikes. They both fell off the bikes and was pleading for me not to shoot them. I wanted to, I really, really wanted to, but I didn’t.

I made them load the bikes in the back of the truck and took them home. I got the bikes and a sledge hammer, beat the wheels into squares, and took the chains and locked them in my glove compartment.

I told them to never cut class again and to never, ever run from me. I told them I would not beat them as their dad did, and I would talk straight with them. They didn’t skip again!

But me and mom started having problems because, when it came down to it, she was a sleazy whore. Now don’t get me wrong. I like a little sleazy whore sometimes. But she was the real thing. She went back to her husband. She was just using me to make him jealous.

Epilog! About three years later her daughter was kill by a drink driver who ran up on the sidewalk. Now her oldest son is in jail and the other boy is a druggy.

She did me a favor by going back to the low life scumbag drunk. I move on and up, got a better life and never looked back - ‘till Blueeyedtwani reminded me of that time in my life.

The Bitch Was Mine...

 
So…I’m suppose to tell you about me hitting my seventh grade teacher. But it wasn’t my fault - kinda.

Mrs. Stringfellow had a bad habit of pulling hair. Not just pulling, but grabbing a handful and shaking the head while telling the tormented student (okay it was me) not to talk in class. Teachers could get away with shit like that back then. I have also been hit on the back of the hand with a ruler for poor penmanship, but that was pretty common among the classes. I wasn’t singled out for that infraction.

Anyways, it didn’t matter if it was actually me or my buddies Richard or Tommy talking, if she heard noise in my direction, I was the target. In all fairness, there was a couple of other punks and one girl that was the recipient of the head shaking, too. But I, deservedly, was the numero uno target.

One day was pretty bad in that I got jerked three or four times and my head was sore. When I got home my two older brothers, Bill and Jim, who were 15 and 10 years older than me, were home, too. I don’t remember why they were home, but they were. As I walked in the bedroom, Bill rubbed my head and said some kind of hello. I winched a little and he wanted to know why.

Dumb me, I told him about Mrs. Stringfellow and the hair pulling. He just chuckled and said I probably deserved it. So I was headed into the other bedroom when I heard Jim say, “If that bitch pulled my hear I would knock the shit out of her.” That’s good enough for me. If Jim, who had rather fight than fuck, said that was the thing to do, then the bitch was mine.

So the next day, sure enough, here she came down the isle with that look on her face. She grabbed me by the hair, jerking me up out of my desk and started to shake my head. That’s when I came up between her tits (there were surprisingly soft, as I remember it) and caught her under her chin.

She started to stagger backwards but was able to grabbed me by the neck of my shirt with her other hand while still holding on to my hair. She took three or four steps backward with me still in her grasp, bent over and trying to keep my balance. And just like in the movies when a car is speeding backward and the driver does a 180 spin to start forward, she got her footing and off I was going to the principles office, my feet barely touching the ground and trying to keep from slipping and falling.

She got to the principles office and, without knocking, flung the door open (good thing he wasn’t jacking off or humping a teacher or something) and threw me into the office and yelled at Mr. Cooper, “This little bastard just hit me and I want him out of this school, NOW.” Mr. Cooper, calmly but sternly told her, in effect, to shut the fuck up and get out. He would handle it.

And he did. We talked about what and why and he said that he would talk to her because he had been getting some reports from some parents about her conduct. But he could not condone violence in his school, so I was suspended for three days. She kept her job. But I had a rough rest of the year on top of all the emotional stuff. In fact, she moved me and my desk next to hers. I was having some rough times growing up and no support at home that year and my grades were not that good. So at the end of the school year she had the pleasure, according to her smile and the gleam in her eyes, of telling me in front of the class that I wasn’t being promoted to the eighth grade, but that I was being ‘placed’ there.

Back in the 50’s, the city of Atlanta did not have junior highs. Elementary was from 1st to 7th and high school form 8th to 12th. She just didn’t want me back in her class again and the feeling was mutual. She was never on my Christmas card list, either.

However, for a while after I punched her, I was treated like a hero by my classmates. I kept in touch with Mr. Cooper for many years, till he passed away and he repeatedly laughed about the incident and said that he often wished he could have done the same thing to her.

But I was on my brothers shit-list for a long time after that. Jim never admitted that he said that, but we both knew he did.

Those Were The Days

Amy, over at Mish Mash, wrote about her hard ass and her first grade experience, so I thought I would tell you about my seventh grade endeavor to be like my older brothers. Back in the 50's Atlanta there were no kindergartens or middle schools. You started the first grade and went through the seventh grade in elementary school. Then you went to high school, starting in the eighth grade (as a sub-freshman.)

My seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Stringfellow, pulled hair if you misbehaved. One day she came down the isle and grabbed me by the hair and shook my head telling me to stop talking in class. That afternoon, when I got home, one of my older brothers (10 and 15 years older) rubbed my head and said, “How’d it go today, squirt?”

I must have flinched, because he asked me what was wrong. I told him Mrs. Stringfellow had pulled my hair. He said something like; you probably deserved it, too. But when I walked out of the room I heard him tell my other brother, “If the bitch did that to me I would knock her teeth out.” That was good enough for me. If my brothers thought that was the thing to do, then it had to be the right thing. I mean, they were older and wiser.

The next day, down the row she came, grabbed a handful of hair and started shaking my head like a dog with an old shoe (guess I really got on her nerves sometimes.) So, I gave her an uppercut that caused her to bit her tongue. My feet didn’t touch the floor until I was in the Principle’s office. Then I was suspended for three days and kick out of school like an old drunk being thrown out of the saloon in a western movie (okay that was an exaggeration.) But I was suspended and my mom beat my butt, my dad beat my butt and my brother beat my butt for telling mom it was his fault. I walked funny for those three days.

But when I went back to school I had a “flat-top” haircut - complete with Butch Hair Wax. Let the bitch try and grab me by the hair now. So she used my ears. That's why, if you look at my head from behind, it looks like a car with the doors open.

Those were the days. I wonder what would happen to Mrs. Stringfellow if she pulled hair today. Maybe a coffeypot wanna-be would pop a cap in her ass. Or the PTA would burn her at the stake. Or the ACLU would sue her for denying the wanna-be their Constitutional Rights of Free Speech. But I do know that my mom and dad would still have beat my butt. That was their favorite pastime.