The Time Has Come

The time has come, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom said, to talk of many things: of chews and chips and soothing naps--of cabbages, and zings.

First cat out of the bag this morning, I nailed two young tobacco chewers. It's really not very smart to come in tardy, together, more than one day this week. Especially if your friend gives me the high sign behind your back right after I say, "You know, it really makes me suspicious when two guys come in late because they're in the bathroom together. It makes me think you're up to something. And I will find out." So when your buddy points to his bottom lip, my suspicions are confirmed.

Furthermore, if you're going to pack a big wad of tobaccy in your lower lip pouch, and proceed to swallow that delicious nicotine kool-aid for the next 45 minutes, with your adolescent adam's apple bobbing to beat the band every ten seconds, don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom won't notice. And for future reference, when Mrs. HM says, "I've got to run a few copies, I'll be right back," that means she is hoofing it up to the office to tell on you in person, since you might actually catch a clue if she picked up the classroom phone and called about your predicament, thus giving you time to swallow your tasty lip candy and destroy the evidence.

In the chip department, I partake of tasty Sun Chips every day at lunch. It makes me no nevermind that the date on my filing cabinet stash of Sun Chips is Oct 4, 2010. They are crunchy to the last drop, and I shall eat them until they're gone.

Last night, I did not post. My Hillbilly Mansion porch light was on, but nobody was home upstairs. I fell asleep in my basement recliner around 8:30, and woke up at 12:30. From there, I hurried off to bed, where I proceeded to toss and turn for an hour and a half.

This morning after 2nd hour, the hall STANK like a park port-a-potty on Labor Day evening. We are used to the stench after 5th hour. The official statement is that the grease trap is backed up, and we just need to turn on every faucet and flush the drains. Every day. But this morning the stench was atrocious. The smell was either rotting feces or cooking cabbage. Since we never have cabbage, I'm putting my money where my mouth will never go, and that is on the rotting feces. But two teachers did agree: after 3rd hour, the smell was identifiable as cooking corn. Which I did not eat at lunch, what with the plethora of expired Sun Chips calling my name.

I showed my class a National Geographic video today. It's a regular lesson we do about how man impacts the environment. This video is about polar bear migration in Churchill, Manitoba. In one part, the polar bears, on their migration through town, forage at the dump. The narrator explains how the bears have never seen fire in their natural habitat, and some learn the hard way that fire is hot. This is over a picture of a young polar bear rooting around for scraps, and sticking his nose in some flames. He grunts and runs away. And one of my little screen talkers spouted, "I've done that." I laughed out loud when another student said, "What, eat at the dump?"

There's no time for me to follow up with whether the sea is boiling hot, or whether pigs have wings. That must be a topic for another evening, because Gold Rush Alaska is coming on, and I aim to be there when those DoNots hit the motherlode.