A left-wing site linked up to this amazing piece of drivel. It is allegedly the memoir of a drug-addicted teacher, but a teacher who somehow taught in a school system where every cliche of the social progressive left wandered into his classroom, where teachers and students were all caricatures, and no one spoke or behaved like a normal human.
The total douchebaggery of the author shines right through in every line, beginning with his assertions about what a totes awesome teacher he is despite taking Hunter S Thompson amounts of narcotics, which he justifies in prose worthy of Brian Griffin from ‘Family Guy.’ (And it’s even funnier if you read it Brian Griffin’s voice).
The school loved me. At first. My mentor teacher called me a natural, raving to administration about my abilities in the classroom. And he wasn’t wrong. Critical thinking and writing — these were essential skills to learn in each of my classes, in every assignment, a lesson carried over from my Wednesdays in Italy with Professor Firch. If you were good at memorizing names and dates, you were going to have a tough time in my class. You’d be better served finding a teacher who gave a shit about mindless busy work and points-based assignments.
Truth is, I put a lot of drugs into my body because I didn’t want to be sick and I didn’t know how to deal with a society whose secrets were somehow more acceptable than my own.
The title is also worthy of Brian Griffin, The Bitter Taste of Dying. Amazingly, in a single year of teaching, he managed to encounter every left-wing cliche and Glee subplot, including:
- The school district that refuses to pay teachers a “living wage” ($33K in this case) but has plenty of money for football.
- The gay kid who comes out to him because he’s the only teacher he can trust
- The high school girl who tearfully confesses she was raped, because he’s the only teacher she can trust
- The football player who confides that his friend is using heroin, because he’s the only teacher he can trust, but the administrators are totally indifferent to her and only care about football.
It’s all as hilariously improbable as Barack Obama getting into Columbia and Harvard on the basis of his grades. And I bet the left will eat it up. He may even get a movie deal out of it. I hope Tommy Wiseau directs.
He tried to spit his words out, but his lips seemed unwilling to play their part. He choked on syllables while he leaned forward. Finally, he managed to blurt out: “I’m gay.”
“I’m gay,” he repeated, as if I possibly could have not heard him the first time.
“Yeah,” I said, immediately regretting it, since that would mean I’d have to keep talking. “Yes… yes… yes you are.”
My immediate response was to worry for Michael. I taught in a school that sat squarely in the middle of a conservative pocket of northern California known as Placer County, where they hold rodeos and where high school football is a much bigger deal to grown ups than it should be.
“Alright,” I mustered, absorbing the situation with a nod, “OK, we can do this.” While we both looked on in anticipation of a plan that had yet to form, I looked him in the eyes to reassure him. “Hey — look at me,” I said, waiting until he made eye contact to continue. “You’re not alone. I’m here with you. We got this,” I said, knowing damn well I didn’t “got” anything, hoping my faux-confidence wasn’t as transparent as it felt. “You’re not alone. We can do this.”
I’m ROFLDYING here. Nobody … NOBODY … outside of a 1980’s Era AfterSchool Special talks or acts like this. The Room had more realistic action and dialog.
If the book is a parody, then, well, done.