And Then There Was a Bunch of Naked Sweaty Men on a Field

If you enjoyed high school then there's probably something wrong you as no-one is supposed to enjoy high school except people who are best suited for sorting buttons or painting street signs.


Mister Ragu was the physical education teacher at Davis Senior High School and he was every kid's dream, definitely Ferris Bueller's dream date: a fookin' PE teacher who's an ex-Marine.  I'm not even remotely joshing you.  Someone thought this was a good idea.

He was a good guy (I guess) but he was a fookin' Marine.  They just don't get it ... hey, man, I'm just here to fuck around.

Take one look. Do you seriously think I'm searching for a gig on the football team??

Besides, by that time I was already racing and thought football was kind of gay anyway.  Way, way too much ass-grabbin' for my taste (i.e. zero ass-grabbing unless the grabber is a nubile Egyptian temptress).

(Ed:  meet a lot of nubile Egyptian temptresses did you?)

Well, I'd say about as many as any other teenage boys.

(Ed:  no, I mean real ones!)

Well, no.

Note:  Mister Ragu is not his real name but it's close.

Mister Ragu was also responsible for the high school wrestling program and that was regrettable as I had less interest in the wrestling program than being stung by the hornets from a nest which has just fallen to the ground beside me.

But the Eleventh Commandment said Thou Shalt Wrestle.

My only reaction to that was, I don't remember any fucking Eleventh Commandment.

That carried no weight, however, because, see above, he was an ex-Marine.  He had covered the floor of the high school gymnasium with pads since ex-Marine PE teachers are prone to teaching useless skills which can easily get you hurt.

(Ed:  really there was a Deep Philosophical Purpose to instill the awareness we're monkeys and we should accept the humility of our true lot in life.  What possible other reason is there for the balance beam?  What need is there for the rings other than to show our remaining skill in brachiation?)

Um, hot tip on that, Ravi Shankar, as any time I need to raise my awareness of being a monkey I'll just think about nubile Egyptian temptresses.

So Mister Ragu called off names of young PE punks who would now be Olympic wrestlers.  My first and, in my case, my last reaction was there's no chance I'm letting some male bring his sweaty, stinky ass anywhere near me.  This thinking was not in accordance with that of Mister Ragu who regaled us with tales of the masculinity of the Greek Olympians wrestling naked and competing on the field of glory ... for just a wee bit of amyl nitrate.

(Ed:  they didn't even have that stuff back then!)

Hey, it's improv.  Roll with it.

So for this class I learned one major lesson:  I'll be my own judge of what's fookin' masculine, if you please.  I didn't see anything in a field of naked Greek Olympians other than a giant increase in the incidence of Mediterranean skin cancer.

There was only one choice remaining if he insists it must be done or you get (drum roll) an F for the Day.  You are a failure, a miserable wretch, an outcast, a worthless wastrel of no possible ongoing value to the rest of the human race.

Yep, throw the fuckin' match ... and I did.

So ended the shortest wrestling career known to man or Greeks (larfs).  I got an F for the Day and spent the rest of my life in the gutter, senseless and incoherent, lost to all humanity.

There was much derision but my thinking was simple with 'go ahead and laugh but you're getting groped and I ain't.  Ha!'