AP Gym

Good morning class. Alright, alright, let’s cut the malarkey. Pipe down you little shitheads!

Good, that’s better. Welcome to AP Gym class. Let’s get one thing clear: you’re on my turf now. This isn’t junior high anymore. We will be whipping your scrawny hind-parts into the finest callisthenic machines Woodrow Wilson High has ever seen. For the next hour, I own you.

Some of you little nancy-boys waltz in here like I’m hosting a freakin’ spring parade. Well, you’d better kick your high heels off Nancy Reagan, because there is no fear in this dojo. It is my personal mission to turn you into the most disciplined, fittest, and aggressive young males in northwestern Nebraska. I look at you all like—Mr. Baxter, you’re late, give me 50—I look at you all like the wretched Hostess snack cakes you are. Well, let me let you in on a little secret: I’m hungry. If you do not tow the company line, I will rip you apart, smash the cream filling straight out of you, and leave a steel dowel rod in its place.

You will exercise, and you will like it. Don’t give me that look Tompkins! Take a lap! There are five rules that each and every one of you prissy milksops will adhere to while you are in this Arnold L. Jackson memorial gymnasium-cafeteria. First, show up in proper attire: this means white-soled shoes, tube socks—WHITE, and your school issued shorts and t-shirt. Second, when you address me, you will call me sir. Third, you will see more bodily fluids in this class than in your young pre-pubescent histories up to this point. Puke and sweat are weakness leaving the body, blood will be worn as a badge of honor, but if I see one of you slack-jawed scoundrels piss yourself, I’ll murder you. Fourth, you will learn how to climb the rope. Finally, I expect each and every one of you to be on time. Excellent work Baxter. Thank you for showing the class how not to do push-ups. Now get down and give me 50 man push-ups.

Before we get into stretch squadrons, let me give you a little bit of background about me. I’m originally from Omaha, but I moved out here to Chickesaw after my second tour in ‘nam. I live alone with my dog Edward, and I’ve been teaching Physical Education to wart-pickers like you for 33 years. I start each day the same way: with 4 pancakes and whatever’s left of last night’s whiskey bottle. I’ve never read a book in my life, and I won the state wrestling title as junior in high school. Last night, I spent the night with Mr. Baxter’s momma.

Any questions?

Good, now get the hell into your stretch squadrons! The pain train’s about to arrive.

–A.T. Piskai

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