The Squeaker.
The FlaBurtz.
The Waaf.
The Puffer. The Fluffer. The Ole Gezzer Duffer.
The Bllllzzzzzztt.
The Tweeter.
The Squirtity Squeeter.
No matter the word, it all comes down to the same thing. A loud, unavoidable release of gas in the class. The kind of gas passing that would register on any given Richter Scale as a damaging menace to society. . . One gas passing that a bar full of truckers and bikers would be proud to call their own. The only problem was, we weren't in a bar and there were no truck drivers or bikers to be had (self excluded). We were in whole class reading. A typically quiet venue.
The natural order of things can go in two directions:
1.) You can ignore it, talk quickly and loudly hoping that no one raises their hand with the typical, "Did you hear that mini nuclear explosion? I think the fall out has swiped the hair clean from my arms!"
or
2.) You can acknowledge the little thunder rumple for the mover and shaker they are, dismiss them to take care of any unfinished business, and adjust the classroom back to some form of civility as you grasp the nearest industrial air-spray sanitizer around.
Another day in the life of a teacher.
4 comments:
Well said!! Which option did you choose?
Dave,
What an accurate description! I remember those days of trying not to laugh...
:) Christine
I chose option one as a kinder, more gentler route,... the only problem is the unnecessary suffering that must be allowed because there is no spray canister to the rescue. Casualties are sometimes needed in the battle of the fluffer pants.
Hmmm, who made chili last night? Just another exciting day in Mr. Kelly's class! Miss you ....
Love,
b.
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