During mandatory morning religious devotionals.
I am talking about pre-Madalyn Murray
We had ‘em. Every morning, the select Brown-Noser of the Day would be invited to the Principal’s Office at my North Carolina high school, and before regular classes began at 9:00 AM he or she would read aloud over the school-wide intercom system the select religious message for us unwashed heathens, inclusive of Bible reading and prayer in the name of Jesus, Amen. I used to wonder what the few Jewish kids in our school thought about all that, but no one ever said anything, so neither did I. I now regret that, but that is all another story. I was never chosen. Brown-nosing came hard for me.
While my more devout brethren and "sistren" in my homeroom class would bow their heads in earnest prayer, I would be sizing up the ballistic distance to ol’ George, hanging on a nail over the blackboard across the room. At the appropriate moment (usually determined by the probable glue-like stickiness of the wad of notebook paper I was rolling around in my mouth), I would remove said sticky wad and hurl it across the room at George, then put my head down quickly in feigned prayer lest the teacher look up quickly at the gratifying sound of said hurled spitball loudly smacking the glass overlying the countenance of George and catch me admiring my work.
Of course, at such an obvious and well-known sound, most all of the students would simultaneously look up (so it was important that I look up, too, so as not to unduly reveal my guilt by being the only student whose head was still bowed) and observe the portrait of George rocking back and forth on its single nail by which it hung with its wire stretched across the back, the offending wad of slobber-saturated notebook paper stuck firmly to the glass over George’s face like some horrible three-dimensional wart erupting from the sainted face of the Father of Our Country.
Jesus wept. Or laughed.
The late stand-up comedian “Brother Dave” Gardner used to ask, quite reasonably I thought, “Do you think the Washington Monument Washington Monument
I had started to branch out and take more risks, thanks to my rising successes. I was giving George the customary “facelift” in other classes as well, usually while the teacher therein had his or her back turned to us students while writing on the blackboard. I made the mistake one day of firing a nice, huge, sticky wad of notebook paper at George in Algebra class, and the teacher turned around to see me just as my arm was extended past my face directly toward George, and the simultaneous “smack” against George’s glass drilled the quiet of the moment. He had me dead in his sights! This teacher was regarded as one of the more sophisticated faculty members, and he was diabolical in his punishment of choice: I had to come back to his room after school and perform 100 pushups on the floor!
I hated pushups! I hated them almost as bad as windsprints, many of which I was required to do by the football coach who hated my guts. The feeling was mutual. The football coach was also my Presbyterian Sunday School teacher, and his patience had been tried many times by my suggestions that predestination meant that I could do anything I wanted since my fate (doomed vs. saved) was already sealed, according to his teachings. He did not approve of my irrefutable logic!
I did not want to do 10 pushups, let alone 100! But I did them, for I did not want to learn what the diabolical alternative might be. It was probably to my advantage that I was a good Algebra student, but that did not give me a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. I did every one of those stinking, miserable pushups.
Following my sweaty penance, I gave up providing George his warts. It was time for others to succeed to my coveted mantle.
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