Well, I really wouldn’t have smoked a joint with William come on… I’m not a joint smoker. I don’t even know what I would try to smoke. Today, I walked Lola through the park and then worked out with Trey. Trey my gay, sado-masochistic, bald headed trainer. But, if he can make my crepe paper ass as tight as his buns of iron… I’m in.

He makes me skip rope to Pitbull, TRX to Shake, Shake, Shake Senora, and something I don’t even know what to TOOL, yesterday I thought he told me to do 20 Baby Seal sit-ups. It sounded fairly nice and relatively easy until I realized it was Navy Seal sit-ups. Jesus.

I think one of my favorite stories about DW is when he wrote his 6th grade book report on a 1960’s adult novel he found at a thrift store. The title: A Hard Man is Good to Find. The story followed the lives of three naughty stewardesses as they pursued their passengers in hopes of ending up with a night of passion.

Dylan changed the book title to: A Good Man is Hard to Find, made the stewardesses into sweet “gals” just making an honest living and enjoying the travel, and scored an A+. Well done.

I am not your normal high school teacher. I curse, I mock, I have student friends on facebook, I’m currently with a large group of them in the midnight Harry Potter premiere line. William just asked me to smoke a joint. Jesus. Do I LOOK like a joint smoker? I don’t think so. I think I look more like the manager of Dairy Queen somewhere in the middle of Grapevine Texas who would in NO way smoke a joint but would go to the Waffle House at midnight for a slab of fried ham and a griddle fried piece of buttered pecan pie.

I  plan to end my teaching days weighing a minimum of 400 pounds, wearing a moo-moo, brandishing a ho-ho, as I ride my rascal up and down my classroom ramp.

Shouting, “Get the hell out of the way you little shits. F’s for everyone!”