Damn Attenboroughs. Exposing my brain farting faults when it comes to names. I have housefly memory when it comes to storing names. Of course everyone on the planet who has brushed up against me remembers my name. Plenty of "Heeeeeey, you, how are you doing?" responses from me. Actually, I have come to the point in my life where I just honestly tell people I have no idea what I should be calling them. Other than you with the face.

Remembering one name requires I delete another previously saved name in the manic memory banks. Has to be cannibalistic like that. Not allowed to leech memory off of comic book hero secret aliases, Monty Python quotes, or the names of Muppets.

Speaking of names. I was rummaging through my library. Came across yearbooks from high school. Decided to sophmorically self gratify myself by creating nicknames for all my past teachers and listing them here. Hopefully a defamation lawsuit will come of it.

Oh holy crow. First on the list. Bimbo Beak. She languished around in French class. Notice I didn't say she taught French, cause learning from her was the apex of futility. Worst of her crimes was her shameful liquid candy center gushing adulation for the French people. Gets no play in middle America. Canals of anger were etched into my desk as her annoying voice would cause me to scrape and dig my fignernails into the formica. Repeating the same jokes and stories of her family constantly. I used to ruffle her blouse by mockingly finishing off her punchlines and "surprise" endings to her droll tales. Her saccharine vocal examples of Baroque intonation permenantly tainted the language for me.

Bimbo Beak's real name is distinctively German. Self Bavarian hate. Step off the coq au vin and get back on the kraut. Although, she did have a ski jump nose, might be Gaul blood in those nostrils. Those deep tunneling Doppler effect nostrils.

Igor the Augmented. Nerd alert! Decent biology teach. Took that science shit a little too far sometimes. In the class shelves he had his uncle's exhumed fake metal hip, his son's removed tonsils and his wife's afterbirth floating in jars of formaldehyde. Proudly showing them off to his new students. Globules of white gunk would accumulate in the creases of his mouth as he lectured. And, his children looked like miniture Cha-Ka's from Land of The Lost. Stunningly ugly. I mean you would look at them and just say "Damn!".

Bl VATBu. Blood Vessel About To Burst. Captain aneurysm. Head coach of the football team, and advanced math teacher. He always looked like blood would trap in his head, and oasis like heat shimmers would emit from the top of it. Everytime he smiled it looked like he was desperately trying to hold back murderous rages. I saw him break a clipboard over the head of the captain of the team. Decent bet he contributed to the pressing cheap coffee stink that emanated from the teacher's lounge.

Triple P, or Pills Pills Pills. She was assuredly self medicating. Her mood swings were fabulous entertainment. Delightfully easy to frustrate her. If I actually hadn't liked literature, she would have never felt a moments peace from me. I once turned the crucifix on her podium upside down when she left class for a moment. After returning to the classroom and eventually discovering the prank, she Triple P freaked. Didn't return that semester.

Marty Martyr. Oh how highly he thought of himself. Self proclaimed prophet and valiant upholder of frugal somber lutheran piety. He would chide us on buying new shoes, before the last pair completely fell apart. And he did maintain his vintage wardrobe. Might have been individualistic and dope, if he didn't have a stick up his ass when he bought them generations ago. He proudly announced one day how he typed up his journals from college, and made copies for his children for their christmas presents that year. What riveting joy reads that must have been.

Air Jesus. The bible salesman. Blank brainwashed face. Clumps of salt and pepper hair erupting from his ear canals. Fuck did he try the hard sell with us on christianity. He once proclaimed that running a traffic light was the same as committing a mortal sin. You can imagine the types of impromtu debates he and I would have. Sometimes his only response to my parry, would be to tell me to shut up. Time honered playground retort there. One of the first brilliant examples of bible tarded individuals.

Lincoln Applet 4.5. This history teacher was a descendant from old Abe himself. Did quite resemble him too. This guy was more patriotic than medically advisable. His passion for U.S. history did often suck you in. I think he wanted to live inside one of those Uncle Sam I Want You posters.

Sinestro Goodbody. Steaming misreable toilet clogger. Joyless prick who wanted everyone else to join in his misery party. I once heard him proclaim that he forgave, FORGAVE his wife for getting raped. Just chew on that for a second. He decided in his infinite grace to bestow upon his wife forgiveness during her recovery period for being forcefully violated by another man. Yeah, Sinestro Goodbody deserves fishhooks in his sphincter.

Mount Padre. One of the reverends who taught at Lutheran North. Driving around in his BMW sportscar, leather driving gloves, man of the cloth collar in full effect. Sucked well on the nipple of excess. One of the major projects he assigned us was to locate subliminal messages in print advertising. I think I beleived in god more than he did. He sure could take a good ribbing though. He chuckled when I told him he should lay off the christ crakers and jugs of Gallo.

The Lisp. Dude was saddled with a serious pervasive lisp. And his name was riddled with S's. I mean picture a deviant little fucker like me, trying to lip bitingly refrain from enacting a lisp, with a name like Mithter Sthuccotathsch. That is a shiny apple too ruby not to pick.

Papa Smurf. Half pint shop teacher. Dude had the gnome full faced ginger beard and everything. He was way too fairytale woodland creature looking to take serious. I remember him trying to subdue a maniac student who grinded down broom handles into javelins. Starting launching them at people. Papa Smurf wrestled the kid to the ground eventually. Struggled to drag the kid to the pricipal's office. Papa Smurf was a major tight ass too. Could make diamonds from coal in between his vice grip clenched butt cheeks. He once refused to contuinue with class till one girl covered up her milimeter of cleavage exposed. And Papa Smurf didn't go home to a tasty crumpet like Smurfette. He was married to the female version of Gargumel.

I was universally hated by the staff at Lutheran North. Only the previously written about art teacher Mr. Rich had any respect for me. Which was mutual. Mr Rich was dope. If I was to give him a nickname it would be Warrior Mork. Bostonian, complete with New Englander accent. Used to call me a "little faht", translated to little fart.

Plenty of other past teachers I could vilify here. But I bore of this display. It bores me. Bored I say. The rest of those teachers all know they are idiots anyway. Well, they do if they remembered what I told them. Yeah that's right.