Dear School,

You, my dear friend, have been bothering me lately. Then again, every time I have to think of a new column idea, you are the easiest, most obvious intangible body to victimize – maybe because some sensitive part of me knows that when the people in charge of this place read my column, no one person will take offense for feeling harangued, and lock themselves in their office to cry under their desk. That would be a sight to see.

First, let me throw a question up in the air. Do you like being put on hold and being made to listen to a fifteen minute, excruciatingly anti-climactic Kenny G. song, only to realize that the sales representative on the other line named Hornswaggle Peterson left for lunch 10 minutes ago? Survey says…No! Nobody likes having their time wasted, especially by a man with an extremely peculiar first name, and a rather ordinary last name.

I’ve always been a guy that likes to utilize my time. So, when a substitute moseys into my math class, it is one thing that she doesn’t know how to turn on a calculator, but it infuriates me that someone completely unqualified and unknowledgeable of a given subject will attempt to teach it. And in the case when they are qualified to teach, the teacher leaves them silly word puzzles or other busy work to be passed pass out. I have things that I could be doing, but instead I have to listen to an incompetent boob for fifty minutes breathe through her mouth. I am sixteen years old, full of hormones and idealistically ambitious. Could you think of no better way for me to spend my time? Send me to a soup kitchen to scrub the urinals. Let me chew crackers for the elderly. Anything to get me out of this nightmare. At least I’d feel like I was doing something productive.

It’s actually quite insulting, to tell you the truth, School. I have a lot going on in my life, as I’m sure most people do. To spend a 50 minute period watching a movie of the mating rituals of hippopotami, or something else completely unrelated to the class while the substitute sits in the corner picking his nose is an absolute exploitation of my time. Maybe I should round up all twenty of the women in my Grandmama’s geriatric water aerobics class and bring them into the offices of each administrator. Then I would forcibly make the administrators scratch off the calluses on the old women’s feet for fifty minutes. I don’t see much of a difference. If you are insulted by my descriptive language, you are feeling the same way I feel when people waste my time.

If this ineffective system cannot be replaced, I can offer some suggestions to validate my criticism. Let me go to the library. Let me study for another class. Let me put my head down so I can dream of a school that won’t abuse my time.

This is my request, School. Think you could manage that? I’ll totally chew your crackers for you when you retire.

God speed,
Robert Scott Dembo

columnist