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Teachers-lounge
If I was to steal Officer Gene’s parking security golf cart and hit highway 32, how far could I get?

Take your time working through your 11:48 dump in the faculty restroom next door, Mrs. Zimmerman. You left your salmon on defrost in the microwave for sixteen minutes.

I need thirty-five seconds to heat up two slices of cold pizza.

Did I humiliate Melisa with that sarcastic comment this morning?

You aren’t supposed to be in the teacher’s lounge, Kyle. It’s my friggin’ twenty-minute lunch “hour” and your dead dog story is harshing my turkey-cheddar buzz and, well, I can’t concentrate on my Hawaii Blast Capri Sun when you’re in here.

Is everyone else in here just pretending they’re great at this?

Is that so, Coach Johnson? Tell me more about losing your fantasy football matchup against Coach Martin by LITERALLY a bjillion points when Hakeem Nicks LITERALLY pulled a miracle out of his ass and saved you with three touchdown receptions on Monday Night Football. Yes, I agree that, while often overlooked and drafted low, defenses and kickers can LITERALLY mean the difference between life and death.

23, 24, 25, 26… swallow. That’s right. I’m chewing my food. Students take up my conference period with questions. They take my passing periods. They take all the beautiful BIC pens I stocked in my special Charlie Brown mug at the beginning of the year. But they can’t take this. Savor it, dammit. 1, 2, 3, 4…

Am I doing this for my ego?

Mrs. Janes, the kids hate you. Like Photoshop-a-penis-onto-your-nose-and-set-it-as-their-desktop hate you. Is that what you wanted? How do you handle it?

Do I get Photoshopped?

Hey, first and second lunch period teachers. I wanted to thank you so much for making sure I stuck to my new “no lunch” diet. When I heard the PTA would be catering an “Italian Feast” this afternoon, I knew it would be tough to resist. Especially after you sent those emails, even texted photos of the lasagna, garlic bread, salad, soft drinks. And all of it served on real dishes—metal forks and knives! That’s why I’m so glad you made sure to eat everything and leave all of us third lunchers staring at a pan of foil with what appears to be half a cup of toddler vomit. Those empty two-liter bottles really hammer home how deeply invested you are in my sugar intake. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. Sons of bitches…

Only five minutes? Fuck. Copies.

Kolby Kerr lives and teaches high school English in Dallas.  He holds an MFA in Poetry from Seattle Pacific University and has appeared in Relief journal.

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