A Poor Substitute

I'm quite good at taking things out of the oven, you know.
I don't even get nervous about it.
I don't need oven mitts, either.
Which is fortunate.
Because I refuse to wear anything deemed a 'mitt' under any circumstance.
The biggest reason why I was never the baseball catcher everyone thought I would be.
It's just as well.
If I'd made it to the big leagues, I'd keep turning around during pitches to wave at the camera.
You burn yourself enough times on one of those toaster conveyor belts and you grow out of oven mitts.

It may be plausible that I'll substitute for real teachers soon enough.
I have some legitimate ideas for teaching, once I begin
(while not being under constant supervision).
Rule one:
No eye contact of any kind.
It makes me edgy.
Rule 2:
The only food permissible to eat in my class is that which you earn.
I'll have a tub of chocolate bars and stuff (riddled with peanuts), and I'll dole those out.
"Correct! Stalin wore a size 13 shoe. The rest of you write that down.
You know what they say about dictators with big feet, har har har.
Oh, you don't know what they say? Whatever. Here's a Snickers."
Rule 3:
You must always have change on you in case you need it for the swear jar.



Rule 4:
If I catch you texting in my classroom, you'll get away with it if the text has perfect spelling and grammar.
If it doesn't, I get to confiscate the phone for the remainder of the day.
Yes, I'm dreaming moderately large.
You should hear the stuff that I have in mind if I ever get tenure somewhere.