Charelton Heston and the NRA Proudly Present:

"Guns Aren't That Bad"

by PATRICK MICHALAK

It's amazing how fast time flies by when you've only got a few minutes of freedom left.

"I raise you five bucks."

"Not on my salary. I'm out."

"Looks like you win, Jude."

Yipee. If my math is correct, which it surely isn't, I just made a killing of six dollars and eighty-five cents. Tax free.

"Well, it looks like it's my lucky day," I spout sarcastically. "Hey, Tim, pass me the Jack."

I finish spiking my can of Diet Coke just in time to hear the shriek of the work bell.

"Good luck, everybody."

I'm answered with a chorus of sighs and grunts. My sentiments exactly. My brain can't comprehend the reason for all the noise and commotion going on in the hall around me as I walk to my room. I spot one of our janitors wearing his dirty, faded blue work uniform and a scowl.

"Morning, Vern."

I can barely make out the words "damn Mondays" from his almost inaudible low growl. Getting to my room, I can't bring myself to open the door just yet. I stare at it for a while, then take a deep breath and a large swig of my beverage, and turn the knob.

"Good morning, Ms. Meaney."

"Hi kids." I sigh. "How was everybody's weekend?"

The cries of "good" and "fine" hit me like a tidal wave, immediately demanding another big drink of my Jack and Diet Coke.

"I went to the zoo, Ms. Meaney!" one of my students announces proudly and loudly.

"Now, Jimmy! I didn't ask what you did, now did I? Why don't you stand in the corner for a while, ok?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Meaney."

"Well, you can be sorry in the corner with the Discipline Hat on."

I reach behind my desk, and present the Discipline Hat in all its glory. It's basically a large dunce hat that I painted the word "stupid" on. The genius of the hat is this: The word "stupid" is spelled "s-t-o-o-p-i-d". So it's like, "Hey class, [Insert student's name here] is so stupid that he can't even spell the word stupid up there on his hat. Now that's stupid, right class? Am I right?" Of course, I never say this out loud. I wouldn't want to hurt the student's feelings.
It's implied, though. It's definitely implied.

Timmy walks slowly toward me with his head down and looks up at me with his big brown, puppy dog eyes. I'm not a mean person, as my name might indicate, and I can't help but feel I've been unfair to the child.

"Ok, Timmy, maybe I overreacted. Class?"

I stand up and hold my fist out to the class with my thumb pointing up toward the ceiling, like I'm giving the class the "thumbs up" all the kids like to do. I rotate my wrist turning my thumb up and down in accordance with the shouts of the students. The result is almost unanimous. In a slow, dramatic motion, I raise my hand high in the air, and then quickly turn my thumb to the floor. The room erupts with cheers.

"I'm sorry, Tim. The class has spoken." I sit back down in my chair and pound a pretend gavel against my desk. "Guilty! Guilty!"

The class joins in with my chant as Timmy quietly takes the hat off my desk and makes his way to the back corner of the room. We all finish laughing, and the class regains composure.

I still can't help but feel bad for the little guy.

"Timmy, I just want you to know that I don't like doing this. But, you're behavior was unacceptable. You might've been able to pull those shenanigans last year, but now you're a young adult, and there are certain responsibilities that go along with that, ok? And not disobeying your elders, that's one of them. I mean, you're in first grade now. It's time to put down the bottle, put down your little rattle, take off your diaper, and grow up. I'm sorry, but you'll thank me for it later. It's called tough love, kid."

There. I feel a lot better now. Well, five minutes down, four hundred and fifteen to go. I'm already counting down the time until I can get back to back to my house to eat my frozen TV dinners and watch the Lavern and Shirley reruns with my cats. I take another big gulp from my can of liquid happiness.

"Ok, everybody why don't we talk about what we did this weekend? Does anybody have any exciting stories for us?"

I stare into a sea of blank faces.

"Anyone? Did anyone do anything interesting this weekend? Anything at all."
Finally someone raises their hand.

"Thank you for volunteering, Jennifer. What did you do this weekend?"

"Actually, Ms. Meaney, I just wanted to use the washroom."

"Well, you can't. Now what did you do this weekend?"

"But I really have to go."

"Well, you should've thought about that before class started, sweetheart. Now, why don't you entertain us all with an amusing anecdote from your weekend, ok? Go."

"Well...I dunno. I didn't really do anything."

"Oh, I've got one" interrupts a voice.

"Good timing, Steven, cuz I only have one Discipline Hat, and Jennifer was really close to having to take over for Timmy."

"Yes, Ms. Meaney?" a hopeful voice calls from the corner.

"What's that, Timmy?"

"I thought you called my name?"

"No, no one called your name. Now get back to the corner."

"Yes ma'am."

"Now then, Steven, let's hear your story."

"Well, my family got a new computer. Our old machine was a pathetic 486 with a 56 K modem. It took up the whole room and used punch cards. Ha ha! Just kidding. It was really weak, though. So, finally my parents upgraded, and we got a 1500 MHz Pentium with a 60 GB Ulta hard drive, a sweet 32 MB ATI Radeon AGP Graphics card, and a 40X speed DVD drive. And we got 128MB RDRAM which is better than the regular SDRAM."

"Ok, there Steven, that's enough. You sure do love your computers, don't you? Well, I've got a web site you should go visit next time your surfin' the net on your new computer: "www.crappy_stories.com". Oh, wait, judging by that last story, you've already gone there. Because that was a very crappy story, young man. And I really don't understand why you children waste your time with those computers. You know I refuse to recognize them as anything but the passing fads that they are. And you mark my words, in a few years, they're going to join the likes of the mullet and ripped jeans in the American Fads Hall of Shame."

I hear a soft cry from the back of the room.

"Oh, I'm sorry Jesse. But, hey, those ripped jeans and that mullet look really good on you."

"Golly, thanks a awful lot Ms. Meaney! It's like my pa sez, 'Business in the front, party in the back'. That's why the mullet can't be beat!"

"Yeah. Anywho, Timmy, why don't you take your seat and give the Discipline Hat to Steven. He has let everyone down with that story."

"Yipee!" Timmy squeals. "My legs were getting really tired!"

"No, wait! I have another story, Ms. Meaney! And it's a good one!"

"Hmm. I hope it is, for your sake. Continue."

"Well, my mom and I went to the mall to meet my Aunty Karen for lunch on Sunday. And my dad stayed home 'cause he said he had to work on his car. So we told him we'd be back at dinnertime. But we actually ended up getting home early, 'cause my Aunt had to get home. And when we walked in, he had the stereo up full blast and was singing along with 'It's Raining Men'."

"Well, Steven, there's nothing wrong with singing along with your favorite tunes. And let me tell you, the Weather Girls are a talented bunch of gals."

"Yeah, but he was drunk and wearing one of my mom's dresses."

The class is silent as I stroke my chin and eye Steven up and down, judging him and his story. I milk it for all its worth and slowly begin to speak.

"Well, Steven. I don't know what to say...except that that was a great story. You get a special star sticker you can wear for the day. Sorry, Timmy, back to the corner."

"Yes ma'am." Like a sad, lonely wanderer looking only for a meal and a place rest, the young boy trudges across the classroom to his corner.

My blank lesson planner is no help as I decide it's time to start working and begin teaching class. Still, I stare at it's pages, concentrating, pretending it holds the answers to my question.

"Alright, students," I say slowly, attempting to stall, "Well. Well, well, well. I suppose we should..."

I'm relieved by a sudden knock at the door.

"Oh, who could that be?" Nineteen years of teaching, and the only person to ever come knocking on my door has been the principal, Glen Willis. I open the door to reveal his short, round figure.

"Hi, Judy, sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you all of the assembly this afternoon."

"What you talkin 'bout Willis?!?" My amusement quickly fades as I'm surrounded by blank stares. Nineteen years of teaching, and the only person to ever come knocking on my door has been the principal, Glen Willis, and every time, without fail, I would greet him with that line. He asked me to stop once, about ten years ago, but I'm tenured, so I can do whatever I want. Besides, it's still really funny, and I know that under than irritated look and the rolls of fat, he's laughing inside. The kids on the other hand, are too young to have known the hilarity of Diff'rent Strokes, deprived in what can only be called "abuse", by the bastards running the television networks.

"Sorry."

"Yes, as I was saying, I just wanted to remind you that we're having the all school "Guns Aren't That Bad" assembly in the gym promptly at ten o'clock. So, if you could make sure you're down there by, say, ten 'til, I'd appreciate it. We are very lucky to have Mr. Heston and his fellow NRA members visiting our school with their very large donation check, and I'd hate to keep them waiting."

"No problem at all, Glen."

"Oh, I see Timmy's been misbehaving again. What are we going to do with him? Every time I stop in here, he's back in the corner. Say, Judy, that reminds me. I've been talking to some of the other staff members about that 'Discipline Hat' of yours."

"Is something wrong, Principal Willis?"

"Well, I was just thinking, the whole "Stoopid" thing might be a little much. Some people think it might be lowering the children's self-esteem. I was thinking you could just get a new one, and perhaps make it out of something heavier, like sheet metal, but not write the word "stoopid" on there. That way, we aren't labeling the kids, but the hat's more heavier and uncomfortabler." Principal Willis felt in necessary to work his fat little fingers into quotation marks whenever he quoted the word "stoopid", revealing the dark sweat stains under his fat arms.

"Great idea, I love it. I'll get right on that."

"Great, great. Ok, well, I'll see you at the assembly. Have a nice day, class."

"You too."

I close the door behind him, and retake my seat behind my desk.

"I hope that when we go down to the assembly that you will all behave like little ladies and gentlemen. Timmy, I'm looking at you."

"Yes ma'am. I will be."

"Good. And if you're well-behaved until then, you won't have to wear the Discipline Hat for the rest of the day."

"Hooray! I would really like to enjoy the assembly without it!"

"Ok, then. Well, class, why don't we, oh, I don't know. Oh, how about current events? Would anyone like to add to our talk about how Chief Justice William Rehnquist went against will of the American people by stealing the 42nd Presidency for his fellow Republican George W. from its rightful owner Al Gore?"

"Aww, not again," the class groans.

"And actually, Ms. Meaney, you're statement was incorrect regardless of one's opinion on the validity of the election."

"Is that so, Calvin? Perhaps you'd like to enlighten us with your little bit of wisdom, oh wise one."

"Well, George Bush is actually the 43rd President of the United States. Bill Clinton was the 42nd."

"Really? What's that from, your social studies book? For some reason I thought...What page is that?"

"Um, it's not in our book. I just know a lot about the Presidents. I really like learning about history."

"Well then, Calvin, you are absolutely incorrect. I've got a pretty good feeling George W. is the 42nd President, and that means that you're wrong.."

"Oh, no, Ms. Meaney. I'm pretty sure about this. In fact, I have a chart of all the Presidents in my school bag. I can go get it..."

I glare at the boy and point to Timmy in the corner as his voice trails off.
"Ok, fine. But, I'm almost sure that..."

I continue to glare at the child.

"Now then, to stay in your comfortable chair; Calvin, who is the fink who stole the 42nd Presidency from the true winner, Al Gore."

"George Bush" he answers reluctantly.

"That's correct! Very good."

"Now class, repeat after me, please: Ms. Meaney has a very big brain."

"Ms. Meaney has a very big brain."

"And Calvin's is much smaller and less powerful."

"And Calvin's is much smaller and less powerful."

"Well, that's like music to my ears! What do you think about that Calvin?

Calvin? Oh, stop crying. Calvin, I'm supposed to be much smarter than you. That's my job, to be smarter than you. That way I can teach you things. See?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Good. Now why don't you join Timmy in the corner until you calm down, ok? Thanks. Great. Well, gosh, class, I don't think it's worth starting a whole new lesson now, considering we've got to get to that assembly."

"But we've still got over an hour and a half until Principal Willis said we had to go to the gym."

"Sarah, let's not forget who the teacher is here, ok? I was only wrong once, and that was when I thought I was wrong, but I was really right. Ok, sweetie? Well, we might as well make our way down to the gym. I'm going to drop you all off, and head to the teacher lounge, because I'm all out of my Diet Coke, and I'm starting to lose my buzz."

"What buzz, Ms. Meaney?"

"That's right, Gwen. You can wait for me in the bleachers."

"No, Ms. Meaney, I asked about..."

"I heard you just fine, dear. Anywho, I just want to remind you to be on your best behavior for the NRA representatives, especially Mr. Heston. He's a very big movie star. And, if you're good, I happen to have a little surprise for all of you."

I reach into my desk drawer and draw out one of the bright orange plastic handguns.

"The NRA people donated these toy guns to help promote real guns. They even shoot little plastic bee-bees. And there's one for everybody...if you all behave."

"Yipee!"

"Ok, everyone, now let's get to the gymnasium so we can listen to Charleton Heston tell us why guns are so great!"