Incompetence is an art form.
I’ve been in this job long enough to know how to do the least work possible, whilst at the same time looking like I’m doing more work than possible and moaning like I’m doing twice as much work as I’m pretending is possible.
I’ve paid my dues.
Don’t get me wrong, I love teaching the kids; I love teaching them that life is one long hard slog. I love skewering their hopes and dreams with the barbed harpoon of my bitter tongue, backed up my world of experienced failure. I particularly like teaching those kids that think they’ve got something to give, so I can burst there hot air balloon and watch as their flailing body is consumed by the flames of self doubt before it crashes in the hard, concrete floor called reality.
Psst…I keep the souls of broken children in a jar in my office.
Kids are like black people to me: they all look the same. All I’m doing is preparing them for a world full of pain, I’m doing them a real service and the little animals should be more grateful for the gifts I bestow on them.
Next to the jar of souls is a water cooler full of tears.
I’m retiring soon and I don’t know what I’m going to do without having all those kids to torture, my wife reckons that one day I’ll end up waiting outside the school gates with a flick knife and puncture some kid’s dreams for real. I laugh at her and say that’s a bit extreme and instead I’ll just abduct one to lock in my garage.
And she thinks I’m joking…