Mr Jones was my 8th grade history teacher. He was tall, lean, had a goatee that freaked me out and always carried a yardstick while he paced the floor rambling on and on about this war and that war. We all knew he actually couldn't hit us; that it was illegal, yet I must admit, I was slightly intimidated by the way he methodically tapped the stick in the palm of his hand as he walked. Once, when I was daydreaming, as I quite often did in Mr Jones' room, he WHACKED that sucker onto my desk just inches from my face. I was mortified. I'm certain it gave him a boner to see me jump 10 inches out of my chair. Maybe he thought he could scare the daydreaming right out of me. I don't know. (It actually didn't work because it is one of my savored rituals to this day.) Once he went up to the chalkboard and wrote the word "assume" in large capital letters. He then began one of his lengthy "important" lectures that resembled a parental lecture in which every word is that of God and we, the silly ignorant children, should hang on to each and every syllable. A S S U M E His definition of assumption wasn't that stupendous; more like Webster's:
a thing that is accepted as true or as certain to happen, without proof: they made certain assumptions about the market | [with clause ] we're working on the assumption that the time of death was after midnight.
And then of course he had to add the "Jonesy touch" NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING IN THIS ROOM! BECAUSE IF YOU DO I WILL BE SURE TO MAKE AN ASS out of U not ME!
Assumption is an interesting device though isn't it? But it can get you into trouble. Like just the other day one of my family members (identity spared for soon to be obvious reasons) visited the park for the first time. Now granted I don't live in Buckingham Fucking Palace but my castle does have stainless steel appliances, bamboo laminate, tasteful art on the walls and 2 (TWO) god-damned bathrooms that I ASSUMED he'd use... "Where's [So-in-so]?" Everyone was asking. "Oh! He's taking a leak at the side yard fence" someone else replies. Then another family member whose name also remains annonymous says, "Yeah, he's holding his unit out behind your unit."
TMI PEOPLE! It's true I assumed a member of the family would use one of the toilets in my "unit" Now I'm wondering, "We can't really be trailer trash can we?" It's all just a joke...a temporary stop...a fetish for pink flamingos that began way back when I was in Mr Jones' room. No, WE aren't "the kind" that actually pee outside, in plain view where Mary at unit 8 can actually watch binocular-free. For Christ's sake, I'm not camping here!
Don't assume I was pissed off! I was somewhat flabbergasted but it had more to do with "his unit" than "my unit" and the visuals that accompanied that. Perhaps the whole meaning of this right here and right now is that I must have "unit envy"; Thank you Freud. You know those feelings of female inferiority and psychic conflict that make a girl wish she could piss freely outside in a neighborhood, accompanied with desirous inate feelings of inferiority and jealousy because unit 34 is a 2008 "triple-wide" with a full-blooming, fruit-bearing lemon tree in the middle of her lawn which is not astro-turf like mine. Yes, my friends...it's unit envy. And maybe Mr. Jones' yardstick was an extention of his unit. I know one thing for certain. If I had a unit, I'd sit like a guy and straddle a chair. I'd dip it in chocolate. I'd go to the movies and put my hands deep in my pocket. I'd not let it get in my way while I climbed a huge mountain. And if I had a unit, I'd pee (outside) like a fountain! :)
-tpg
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