While constitutionally I am basically a coward I have a cognitive
defect much like a mild form of Tourett's syndrome that makes it
impossible to not say the joke that comes to mind. I can know it will
not go over, I can know it will offend, I can know it will end in me
taking a beating and still I press on. Rather; blurt on. The joke
must go on. I had already taken a few beatings in my scout troupe, elementary school, middle school, home and at play by reason of my
unbridled smartassery. Then there was Junior High. We were a school
that mixed together about ten small cities and brought kids into
close proximity for the first time who had very different cultures
and pecking orders. That meant they all had to be re-evaluated and
amalgamated or assimilated in a very short time. There was a Hispanic
kid from Payson who decided early on in the year that I looked like
and easy target for physical bullying because of how small I was. I
was only about 60lbs and 4'8” when I started eight grade so not a
real imposing physical specimen even by the shrimpy standards of Junior High
but even by shrimpy standards this kid was a king prawn. He started
to go out of his way to pull my shoulder length blonde hair and tell
me to get an effing hair cut because I looked like a skater pussy. I
appreciated his honest and forthright appraisal of my looks for what
it was worth but declined to entertain the idea of a drastic
reassessment of my personal style based on one review. I did,
however, take great pains to avoid his physical and verbal assaults
in the hall way but it was not a big school and at least once a week
he was trying to antagonize me because he had little fear of
retaliation. He didn't realize that he had engaged in a multi-front
battle with one of the premier smartasses working in Payson and the
surrounding environs at that time. I knew he could do nothing to me
in the three classes we had together and he was no match for my wit
so I started an unrelenting psychological campaign to bring him down
a notch or ten. An example, in our English class I would walk in and
then give an exaggerated stinky face and start waving the air and
make a big to do about it smelling rancid. Then I would loudly ask
who farted and ask for a confession and then all of the sudden I
would make a show of realizing that this kid was in the room and call
off the dogs. I would tell everyone not to worry about trying to find
out who farted because he just smelled like that all the time. In gym
class I would jog passed him and then yell out for everyone in class
to hear, 'No! I don't want to look at your penis!” and then run off
before he could hit me. This last one would cause a gym class chain
reaction that would have lots of other boys also telling him they
didn't want to inspect his member either. Then the joke migrated to
the hall and several people were telling him in passing that they
also would not be interested in seeing his boy-bits. If he was
picking on me before out of boredom and unfocused aggression my
campaign helped him to want to hurt me for more personal reasons.
That is when the whole thing got to the boiling point and went
pear-shaped and other mixed metaphors indicating a problem coming to
a head including, but not limited to, straws and camels and fans and
poop.
