Mr. Englebert the English teacher made it a point to inform his 8th grade pupils everyday that the ear-wax they kept fiddling with was just more of the shit they had for brains. The kids in turn whispered that the big black mole on his forehead was the mark of the Beast.
Mr. Englebert was certainly some incarnation of a demented devil and the mad glint in his eye was ample proof of it. The kids never tired of seeing Mr. Englebert wind himself up into one of his hurricane-like apoplectic fits complete with gales of abuse and bolts of wanton violence. In fact, they took a diabolic pleasure in getting him as wound up as a contortionist on caffeine.
Mr. Englebert, being the pedantic and pernickety twat that he was, believed in the purity of the English language and wouldn’t suffer lightly the pimply-cheeked, snotty-nosed fools who distorted it.
He took a particular distaste to Megat, the Malaysian boy, who would say, “Mr. Englebert sir, were I to be borrowing a pencil?” On hearing this Mr. Englebert’s eyes would glaze over. He’d snarl like a lion with a sore tooth and tear at his hair like a manic mole-rat. He’d loom over Megat and boom, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU SAY IS AN IMPERATIVE INTEROGAGTIVE FORM OF A FUTURE CONDITIONAL TENSE! THIS DOES NOT EXIST IN ENGLISH! SAY, ‘I’D LIKE TO BORROW A PENCIL, YOU DENSE DUFFER!’”
To make sure Megat wouldn’t forget he’d slap him about a few dozen times and then smack him on the back of his head for good measure, secretly hoping the boy’s eyeballs would pop out.
Another pupil who annoyed him like a flea in his armpit was the Iranian boy, Amir, whose weak bladder prompted him to keep running to Mr. Englebert with a look of desperation, pleading, “Can I go to the toilet sir?” Mr. Englebert huffed like sumo and puffed like a lorry. He then drummed his chest like a ga-ga gorilla and roared, “I DON’T KNOW IF YOU CAN GO TO THE TOILET, BUT YOU MAY GO TO THE TOILET YOU BABOON BOY!” He would then drop-kick Amir out of the class to make sure he didn’t wet the classroom floor.
Yarik, the Ukrainian lad had not a chance in hell of escaping the wrath of Mr. Englebert because he kept dropping his definite and indefinite articles without a care in the world. When Yarik was asked a question he’d stare blankly and gave his stock Kalishnokov reply: “I don’t know answer.” This would make Mr. Englebert grit his teeth in fury. His eyes would roll in frenzy, and his mouth would twitch uncontrollably like a rattlesnake. Finally he’d shriek, “YOU DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER! THE ANSWER! EVERY TIME YOU FORGET TO SAY ‘THE’ I WILL BREAK ONE OF YOUR DIGITS, YOU OBTUSE OAF; STARTING WITH YOUR LEFT THUMB!”
He then promptly proceeded to snap Yarik’s left thumb like a twig. Poor Yarik had no use of any of his fingers by the end of the term.
Mr. Englebert’s only period of respite came during the recess break when he would collapse on his desk and gaze at the piles of marking that rose around him like incomprehensible towers of Babel.
He’d mark the pupils’ essays with all the fervour of a Medieval Catholic priest, eager to spot the slightest transgression in grammar or punctuation. Every dangling modifier was drawn and quartered. Adjectives were coerced into qualifying nouns and verbs were forcibly conjugated into the correct tense. Every anacoluthon was minutely inspected and sentences were intimidated into carrying a subject and verb. Independent clauses not connected by a coordinating conjunction received a stern warning and singular pronouns that didn’t refer to singular antecedents were censured. Split infinitives were united and transitive verbs were reconciled with their objects.
However, it was always to the menagerie-classroom filled with monkeys that he returned. He decided to teach them poetry and how to rhyme. “Give me a word that rhymes with ‘Red,’” he asked Daniel, the little cross-eyed kid with big glasses who always had his mouth open and drool dripping down the side of his mouth.
Daniel gawked at Mr. Englebert blankly and blinked twice. Daniel was busy thinking about the fluff in his navel.
“BRUSH THE BLASTED COBWEBS FROM YOU HEAD YOU DOLTISH DUNG-BEETLE AND GIVE ME A WORD THAT RHYMES WITH RED!” Mr. Englebert bellowed like a bison with haemorrhoids.
Daniel’s chin jaw dropped lower and the pool of spittle on his table grew into a small lake. He stared blankly at Mr. Englebert wondering about how to get that fluff out of his navel.
Mr. Englebert had reached the end of his tether and was dangling from the cliff of sanity by a very slender and fragile thread.
He swallowed a few times and took a few deep breaths. He then strode up to Daniel grabbed him by the collar and raised him out of his chair, his feet dangling in the air. He stared him eyeball-to-eyeball and said slowly and deliberately, “GIVE ME A WORD THAT RHYMES WITH RED, YOU MUDDY-HEADED MAGGOT.”
By this time Daniel had vaguely cocked on that something was happening in his vicinity of the universe and said, “Red, sir?”
Mr. Englebert pursed his lips like a Gucci handbag. His eyes were blazing like hot coal in a Californian forest and his face went as pale as an albino polar bear. He held fast to the last vestige of sanity and said, “Yes, give me a word that rhymes with red.”
Daniel was now eager to please and smiled like the retard that he was and said confidently, “Blue.”
At that Mr. Englebert gently lowered the boy into his chair, walked to his table, collected his bags and belongings and walked out of school. He got into his car and drove off the nearest cliff. As his car was in free-fall his only wish was that there were no more asinine pupils and half-witted classrooms in hell.
