Hungry Like the Wolf

I bought a clubhouse during lunch on my observation day.
I went to B & B Snacks. It was nearby.
I tried to link B & B, but they don't have a website.
Or I'm not searching well enough to find it.
"Try Altavista!"
Anyway, I was accosted by pre-pubescent 'hardcases' before my clubhouse was ready.
"Do you want to be a teacher?"
"I did," I said, "Until I had your class. Now I don't want to anymore."
"Can I sit wit' you?"
"Why not?"
"So, why do you have an afro?"
"Because it makes the ladies like me."
"No it doesn't."
"Sure it does. You like me."
"No I don't!"
"You asked to sit with me."
It was kinda fun.
It was like verbally fencing with people who aren't as smart as you all day long.
Well, I guess that's exactly what it was.
They warmed to me a great deal.
In the hallways the boys would stop and say, "You got wicked hair, man."
The girls would whisper loudly, "I like his hair."
Imagine if I'd grown it out when I was in grade seven.
The ass.
My son.
That age group doesn't appeal to me as much these days, though.
I like breasts (fully formed).
I like hips.
It's a shame, really.

Show at The Rose last night.
Wasn't bad.
I have a new joke about Big Tom that I've already fallen in love with.
Which is similar to my love for Big Tom's wife.
But there are subtle differences between the two.


It's the 80s again, you know.
Emo is the 80s again.
Look at what they're wearing.
The music doesn't sound similar.
But it's similar in that it'll be really embarassing to everyone involved given another eight years or so.
Think about it.
And it'll slowly dawn on you that Emo haircuts are just A Flock of Seagulls at a different angle.