by A.J. Edwards
What a bunch of pansies. (Decorum prevents me from using the actual P-word that I would prefer to use.)
A herd of whining vaginas has petitioned the Tangipahoa Parish School Board to postpone this year’s start of school. Apparently, it’s too hot for their precious spawn to learn to read, write, and bully the weak.
It’s not our fault you’ve kept your burgeoning activist in a hermetically sealed, climate-controlled uterus all his life, or that he’s done nothing more strenuous than thumb the big X on his multiple game systems while wolfing down bon-bons.
Your little loafer stands a better chance of dying from heat exhaustion sitting in your car while you’re in Wal-Mart on a beer run than he does blowing a tuba in Mrs. Twilliger’s band class.
Too hot for school? Are you kidding me?
Face it: Your little loafer stands a better chance of dying from heat exhaustion sitting in your car while you’re in Wal-Mart on a beer run than he does blowing a tuba in Mrs. Twilliger’s band class. Next thing you’ll want is to push football season into October so your Fighting Fish Mittens will stay as fresh as a summer’s eve.
There are hundreds of kids little Johnnie Frosty-Pants’ age sweating their balls off to cross the border illegally for the opportunities your kid has! Of course, they’re swimming in a river — but they’re still outside! Those kids are crossing deserts and climbing rocks all day in this heat, but you are afraid that forcing your little badass to walk from your air-conditioned home to the street to catch the bus may dehydrate him? Cry me a freaking river.
Have you ever thought that little Mr. Frosty-Pants’ obesity problem might be because the only time he sweats is when he is shoveling meat into his gaping maw? Or because the most strenuous exercise he gets is pushing all that meat out his lard ass?
Yes, it is hot. This is Louisiana. It has been hot here since the last Ice Age receded eons ago. We all survived our childhoods in classrooms just as hot with nothing more than a few open windows and a small box fan pointed directly at the teacher. So what if our sweat caused the ink from the freshly dittoed pages to bleed into a purple splotch on our forearm? We pretended it was a tattoo and we were badasses returning from the war.
Hell, there are kids little Johnnie’s age in Singapore sweating their little yellow asses off making little Johnnie’s Air Jordans who would love to take your kid’s place. And don’t get me started about the fine young men and women sweating bullets in a sandbox defending your kid’s right to a free, climate-controlled education.
The truth is, no one has ever died of heat stroke during math class. No one has ever dehydrated himself to the point of hospitalization at a spelling bee. And your candy-assed kid will not die playing tag inside the gym at recess.
No one has ever died of heat stroke during math class.
Quit pampering the little shit.
Sweat is good. Nothing worthwhile has ever come about without more than a little sweat. Sweat built the pyramids. Sweat carved the great statues of the Renaissance. It fueled the industrial revolution, conquered the Germans — twice — and fueled the space race. The sweat of a farmer’s brow feeds this nation and the rest of God’s creation. It has built these United States into the greatest nation the world has ever known.
And it is the sweat off your back that kept your little hellion perspiration-free all summer. It would do him well to shed a few drops.