How I Became the Adorable Jackass I am Today...Part 1

2^nd Grade—

            When I was eight years old, I was in a class full of kids who were known as “gifted”. How I got into this class was anyone’s guess. Perhaps this certain Elementary school was so overcrowded; the only place they had to put my average little butt was in this class full of perpetual eggheads. Even to this day, I have always wondered what these “kids” did for fun after school. Did they go home and memorize the dictionary? Work complex math problems? Read encyclopedias?

            I ask these questions because I remember distinctly our teacher asking us to take a word from the dictionary, write down the definition, study, and learn the word. We were then to go in front of the class and present the word and see who in the class knew its meaning. No matter which word I chose, no matter how hard I made it, someone in this room full of little poindexters knew the definition word for freaking word! I could pick the most complex word completely at random, and some genius from this class recited the definition. Now that I am an adult, I have to wonder if these future rocket-scientists actually comprehended these words, or if they were just parroting what they had been forced to read from over-zealous parents who were desperate to see their children succeed.

            Of course, I did not fit in to this room full of future presidents, physicists, astronomers, brain surgeons, or whatever high achievers their parents had aspired them to be. (Of course most of them became accountants, teachers, nurses, a lawyer here or there, and surprisingly, a few bums and panhandlers) The following became one of my first experiences of being an ass although it was brought on by one of these “My-mom-said-I-was-the-smartest-kid-alive!” morons.

            Our teacher had given us a writing assignment. The assignment went something like this: “The teacher came into the classroom only to find all of the students were hiding in the trashcan. Write a story telling why.” My mind went into creative overdrive. The story I wrote was about a potato monster that had escaped from the cafeteria that day and had ran into the classroom and was wreaking havoc. The students were so frightened of the damned thing, they all were in the trashcan hiding from it. The teacher and the class loved it, except for Mr. I’m the smartest kid alive. I should mention that his real name was _____ Holstein. (No kidding.)

             I got some adulation from the teacher and my fellow students for writing this story of wit and hilarity, while others wrote lame stuff like the children were hiding in the trash to avoid doing school work or taking a test. While I was basking in my moment, this jealous little jerk leaned over to my desk and said rather nastily, “Oh my god, a potato monster? Seriously?”

            I took a “whatever” kind of approach to this. “Yea,” I said, nonchalantly. “A potato monster. At least I’m not named after a cow.  ‘Holstein.’”

That kid never bothered, or spoke, to me again.