the last word (tm)
17/No. 4 - 449th issue - September
firstname.lastname@example.org - http://www.bunkerblast.info - Bellevue, Kentucky
CHECK OUT THE ONLINE LUNCHPAIL AT http://onlinelunchpail.blogspot.com
Blog blogga blogs at http://bandit73.pitas.com and http://www.myspace.com/bandit41073
OUR ANNUAL BACK-TO-SCHOOL ISH!
PHONE HARASSMENT: LESS THAN MEETS THE EYE!
Everything about The Last Word screams, "Fuck Brossart!" As well it should. It took 15 years to even begin recovering from the pain my former high school caused.
I call the school a right-wing cult for a reason. But since I'm the most vocal public critic that this small private high school has, I guess being harassed by the cult goes with the territory.
On August 24, I got a phone call that appeared to be an ad for an upcoming movie based on the Transformers line of toys. ("More than meets the eye!") Except it seemed to be targeted at moi personally, as the recording declared, "Take a break from blogging and listen to me."
I traced the call, and guess where it traced to? Why, Brossart. The detailed account I posted on one of my blogs, The Online Lunchpail, is at:
(Incidentally, The Online Lunchpail is my flagship project these days. The Last Word is a vestige, so the real action is on the 'Pail now!)
A clip of the call is at:
(Hopefully, YouPube will let me keep that clip up despite whatever complaints of feewinghurt Brossart will inevitably lodge.)
A follow-up 'Pail entry is at:
Surprised by any of this? Brossart making an unsolicited call like this isn't too surprising. Trust me, if you haven't been on the receiving end of the school's wrath, you probably don't know what they're capable of - especially if you don't go on to be their #1 critic. The surprising part is the school not covering its tracks.
The proof that Bro$$art made this call is prima facie. That means it's self-evident. I traced the call right back to them and recorded the whole incident. Granted, it happened on a Sunday, but there must have been someone on campus that day. (Knowing Brossart, they've probably started having school 7 days a week.)
Turns out there's a website that lets people make personalized Transformers-themed calls like this. Several folks have expressed the belief that someone "forged" Brossart's phone number so the call would appear to come from the school. But I'm skeptical that one can "forge" a number with call return. If they could, call return would be useless. Further, why would a website that lets people "forge" numbers even be allowed? Wouldn't that be fraud?
I firmly believe the call came from the school. Not a shadow of a doubt in my mind.
If some asshole (probably a Brossart follower) could post crap on my message board using the name of a Superman character to argue about a local radio station's miserable music selection, someone connected to Brossart could certainly use a Transformers site to place weird calls.
What can I do about it? All the call did was publicly confirm something that I knew might as well have been true. Even if Brossart itself wasn't suspected of any of the harassing calls I've been getting for years, it was already known that some of the calls were from some of its students from years past who the school let misbehave. I'm sure those former students remain tight with the school, so it's fair to say that as goes Brossart, as go the cretins who harassed me.
Brossart stole over $400 from me and lied to the police about a bully who attacked me after school one day, so making strange calls about Transformers is inoffensive in comparison - except for the fact that the call came from Brossart.
WHEN A TOILET GOT "RETOOLED"
Because this is our Back-to-School issue, it's fun to regale you with the ghosts of ploppings past. And with Brossart being the plopping capital of the world, how about a story of some Brossart-related ploppage?
Before anyone asks why I'm being so hard on Brossart in this ish, you have to realize I'm treating the school with more respect than it gave me. Being called nasty names 500 times a day and getting slugged by maniacs between each class isn't what I call civility. If you don't toe the line at Brossart nearly 100% of the time, you can expect to be made a scapegoat by school officials.
Anyhow, when I went to Brossart from 1987 to 1990, "retoolings" were a mainstay. "Retoolings" are what the priest who taught sophomore religion class called them. (Not exactly a non-cult-like term, is it?) They were outings to a church in Kenton County. And these events were quite useless. I never understood the point of any of them.
For the 3 years I went to Brossart, behavior at these events got progressively more daring. When I was a freshman, students kept trying to derail trains by placing pennies on a nearby track. I believe the same happened the following year. Only that time, people farted more. During Mass, the student in front of me cracked a loud and proud bunker blast, which was so intense that a bubble formed in the rear of his trousers.
The third year (after the Brossart thought police made me fail 10th grade), my schoolmates added several new gambits to their repertoire. It was then that a student demonstrated that he was able to fart the tune of "Stayin' Alive." Another student got skeeped at by the priest who was on hand for chattering during Mass. But the outing will likely be most remembered for 3 - count 'em, 3 - ploppings.
When I went in the boys' restroom early in the day, I noticed someone had thrown a whole roll of toilet paper into the toilet bowl. It appeared to be a brand-new roll - but now it was ru! All that toilet paper, wastage bastage!
Sometime later, I had to drain the main vein again. I returned to the restroom and noticed someone had thrown a brand-new bar of soap in the toilet. Needless to say, that soap was ru too.
I believe it was then that I saw something even more uproarious: There was a cylindrical, cup-like object on the floor that was the exact same size and shape as the toilet paper roll. It appeared to be made of plastic, and it was clear with a black base. Sitting on the floor next to it was what appeared to be the roll of toilet paper that had been plopped earlier. It was sopping wet, and the floor was soaked by it.
It was obvious that the cup on the floor was designed expressly for retrieving rolls of toilet paper out of toilets. What's even funnier is the fact that this tiny, rural church even possessed such a device!
I guess they were prepared for a visit from Brossart, weren't they?
Later I went back to the restroom and noticed that someone had put a Mello Yello can in the toilet. The Mello Yello can got yellower as I did my thing, but then I did a strange thing: I flushed. My policy for using the johnnypot during school functions was the same as it is for rest areas and other public restrooms: Flushing is usually out of the question. Why even risk getting germs on your hands by touching the flush lever?
But because there was a soft drink can in the toilet, I couldn't resist making an exception. I honestly hoped to hell the soda can would clog the donicker. Although it wasn't on Brossart property, it would've served the school right for everything it put me through - because that church probably never would've allowed Brossart to conduct "retoolings" there again.
But the Mello Yello can opted not to go down the drain. Instead it floated upside-down in a hilarious spectacle!
I'm guessing there were about 50 students on this outing, which leaves about 25 males. Three ploppings in one day is a mighty high ratio for only 25 potential ploppers. Somebody was determined - and I mean determined - to reduce that commode to a pile of rubble!
But toilets are a tough breed. The tinkletoriums back at school may have been fragile, but the johndolas elsewhere have moxie (not Moxie, but moxie)! They don't back down easily. But while the toilet at that isolated rural church didn't seem to suffer any physical damage that day, someone sure as shit "retooled" it!
THE "SCHOOL" THAT DIDN'T COUNT
Hey! You know what paradise is?
It ain't CPH, that's for damn sure!
CPH was a gulag. If you were a teenager in Northern Kentucky after about the late '80s, and if you looked at someone cockeyed, there's a good chance you'd end up there. (This is probably still true, although this concentration camp - which is in Covington near the Fort Wright city limits - isn't called CPH anymore. Hint to its current identity: Look to Polaris, and unlock.)
I did 4 months there for the "crime" of getting kicked out of Brossart. No hearing, no nothing.
CPH had school even in summer. They lied to us when they lyingly said we'd get credit for it, which was a lie from those liars. If I'd known it was a lie, I would've "refused school" - which was the guards' frequently repeated phrase for an inmate opting not to go to school. But because CPH was run by liars, they didn't tell you when they were lying. Otherwise they wouldn't be liars.
But how was school there any worse than what it was at Brossart? The more a teenager bullies their schoolmates, the less likely they are to be placed in an abusive facility like CPH. In other words, my contemporaries at CPH were far less threatening than those at Brossart.
And school at CPH had its share of hilarious hijinks. The computer in the classroom featured a rhyming game that was far below high school level. A simple word would flash on the screen, and we had to type in words that rhymed with it.
The catch with this was, it didn't take much computer knowledge to open up the word bank and add words (a feature that was supposed to be open only to teachers). So you can guess the hilarity that ensued.
One day I was sitting at my desk when I heard a detainee who was at the computer utter that elongated, nasalized "ohhh" that means only one thing: They saw a bad word!
I turned around and saw "FUCK" on the screen. The word had been randomly chosen by the rhyming game.
The teacher wanted to see what the commotion was. Apparently he didn't know it was possible to add words to the word bank. He seemed to think the game came with fuck already included. He said something to the effect of, "We're gonna have to write a letter to the people who made this software about their dirty vocabulary."
Something else uproarious happened when an inmate argued with the teacher about some minor disagreement. Usually, disagreeing with staff at CPH was like a major felony - even though it was impossible not to do, because the guards there were argumentative about everything. The teachers in the school portion of the program were more lenient, however.
After this argument, I was working quietly, when the teacher began lecturing the detainee. I looked behind my desk, and saw the inmate laying on the floor under his own desk, facing the back of the classroom!
'Twas kinda nifty! Apparently, he laid on the floor as a protest against the initial disagreement.
Now when am I going to get my school credit that I'm owed? Granted, the school aspect of the program was just a dog and pony show designed to keep us under the program's spell. Even though some of the instructors were certainly above-average, school at CPH wasn't designed with academics in mind.
I spent so much time in school and put so much effort into it that I should easily have a master's degree - except for the fact that I hardly learned shit in almost 20 years. (I didn't go to very many good schools, you know.)
FARTING ON COMMAND! (A Flatulent Flashback)
Fart. I beseech thee.
Admit it: It's funny when people fart really loud. And the funniest place for people to rip bunker blasts may be school. And the funniest school for people to do so may be...well, I'll let you guess. Hint: it's Brossart.
In every class in high school, people were likely to crack a wafto. The loominsky could be silent but violent, but more often, it was loud and proud!
And certain students seemed to be able to fart on command! So, in many a class, you'd often see pupils whispering a one-word order to each other: "Fart." They usually got immediate compliance.
Farting was even funnier when the existence of a wafting bunkeroo was officially recognized. I remember the time someone farted in a quiet classroom - and the teacher, who was an aging woman, gasped.
One day, a priest who taught a class at Brossart lectured a student about his flatulence. The clergyman said, "You were back there farting the whole time." I snickered at the fact that a dignified priest discussed intestinal gas using its mildly vulgar slang term.
One other time, our history teacher had engaged a class discussion about the mystery of Anastasia of Russia. When the instructor paused, someone ripped an LAP biffer. The teacher then became clearly exasperated. He angrily said, "This doesn't have anything to do with history," and resumed the regular class material.
See how comical it is when folks pass the gas?
If I could only count the number of times people released bunker blasts at Brossart! Sadly, my record-keeping wasn't as detailed as it should have been - because I got frustrated by the school's overall totalitarianism. (When I so much as looked at someone funny, I caught hell. But when some spoiled brat threw a chair, it was considered "art.") A full account of these farts could have easily filled up a whole notebook. I'd estimate that I detected several thousand pooteroonies during my 3 years at Brossart.
Fart. That is an order! And it will bring you fame and fortune for generations to come!
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