The Education of Degorramacles

[Degorram]

~written in the style of Rabelais....I think~

 

When Degorramacles began school, she began as every child of the age naturally began, that is by sitting down at a table and smashing clay into indistinguishable blobs, or scribbling frantically with crayons on a blank sheet of paper, for hours on end. It was very important, said her teachers, for her to express herself creatively, and so Degorramacles followed their every instruction and received top marks on all of her indistinguishable blobs and frantic scribbles, which were frantically indistinguishable from any of the other children’s blobs and scribbles. The teachers loved them anyway. It was very important to create an encouraging environment for young children; the critical loathing was to be held off until at least third grade.

 

By the time she was reading and writing, Degorramacles had graduated to doodles that somewhat resembled animals, and her blobs now began to shape bowls and cups. While her parents were very proud of their daughter’s progress, they did not manage to out-boast Degorramacles’ teacher, Ms. Fergus DeLecompterix, who hailed the girl as a veritable genius. “Van-Gogh was called one of the finest artists of his time,” Ms. Fergus would tell her parents, “and one of his most distinguishing features was his missing ear. Your daughter Degorramacles is such a fine artist that I’m sure she’ll be cutting things off at a much earlier age!” Degorramacles herself never heard such compliments. Perhaps her teacher believed that Degorramacles would not understand the deep and insightful opinions that she reserved only for her parents, for instead the student only ever heard “That’s beautiful, dear” no matter what she created. And Degorramacles, being particularly fond of the clay, created everything, her favorite being elephants. Out of curiosity, however, sometimes she would create things other than elephants, like lizards, or giraffes, or great steaming piles of feces, just to see what Ms. Fergus would say. “That’s beautiful, dear! Keep up the good work!” was always bound to follow. Degorramacles found this most odd and stuck with elephants all the way to fifth grade; and all the way to fifth grade her elephants remained the same, changing only in construction as she discovered better ways to attach the ears to the head, the tail to the rear end, and toenails to the toes, the hairs to the forehead, and so on. Otherwise they improved not a bit, and continued to be round, stubby, and wrinkly.

 

Middle school was a big step for Degorramacles, for they were the years that taught her patience and put a dent in her pencil-bracing finger. Her teachers insisted that they adequately prepare their students for high school, that dangerous and frightening place where students were rumored to fail for having a 456,983 word paper rather than a 456,984 word paper.

 

Adverbs are very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very important you see, for they boost the bulk of all literary work. There was a long list of them, in fact, that hung from every wall, and some of the ceilings, of Degorramacles’ middle school, and at any given time at least three students could be seen huddled around it, memorizing as many adverbs as they could…

 

Terribly Truthfully Lively

Simply Jollyly Birdly

Angrily Lollypopily Consumptiously

Happily Haltingly Happily

Swiftly Half-awake-ly Wheezingly

Bouncily Playfully Gnomely

Quietly Producely Frivolously

Geniously Sheeply Crudily

Ignorantly Syzygyly Leely

Obscenely Provincially Cottonly

Featherly Woodly Shakespearly

Hippopotamusly Happily Robotically

Grandly Numberly Happily

Hangingly Explosionly 3rd-Centurily

Rutabagaly Wingly Ly

Pointily Fartly Teally

Rockily Joyfully Rgsdjkleirjeisojresklresfmdsly

 

And so on.

 

In order to ensure that her students were up to the task of facing the dreaded high school (which was called H.S. in code, for the very title itself would often send one of the teachers screaming for cover under a desk) the literature instructor assigned two research papers every year, always a minimum of nine pages, though occasionally, on very special years, she would extend this minimum to twelve. Every paper was to be written by hand, in cursive, with ink, and so Degorramacles, along with her other beleaguered classmates, sat in a cold classroom with an ever growing mountain of crumpled up paper next to her desk, slowly writing her words out until the script curled perfectly across the page in a beautiful ballet of — is that supposed to be an ‘I’? It looks like an ‘L’. You’ll have to start that page over. Yes I’m serious. No, no, please don’t cry. Oh, look, you’ve gone and splattered your other page. That one will have to be redone as well.

 

At last those years passed, and Degorramacles came into H.S., where she spent many years cramming her brain with facts and names and dates and sentence structures and Sudoku solutions. In this time she completed the greatest achievements of all her educative career, feats that would even outdo her mastery of creating identical clay elephants, such as passing calculus. It was this one esteemed subject, in fact, where Degorramacles came to know one of the most esteemed professors of the entire school. His esteemed name was so far above the comprehension of the students that they came to call him simply Winston, and nothing more.

 

One day, as Degorramacles was sitting in her calculus class, she came upon a terribly difficult problem that she did not understand: how many students would fall on a rainy day if thirty four monkeys ate seventy eight bananas and there were sixteen sparrows flying through the sky whilst gripping coconuts? Degorramacles, vastly confused – for the numbers were wrong, the letters upside down, and the ratio of monkeys to bananas absurd – raised her hand boldly and said in a loud voice:

“Winston, and nothing more, what does this problem mean? How can it be solved?”

 

Winston, and nothing more, turned at once, sniffing proudly, and asked, “Which problem? Ahem.”

 

“Number Two,” Degorramacles replied. “My question is, why are there—”

 

Here Winston, and nothing more, cut her off excitedly. “Why are there thirty four monkeys instead of twenty seven? Excellent question, what a fine student you are. The answer is that the writer of the mathematical equation, in his great and infinite wisdom, simply wanted there for be thirty four monkeys. Ahem.” He nodded his great head many times, pleased with his excellent ability to answer his student’s complicated questions.

 

Degorramacles blinked. “But Winston, and nothing more, that wasn’t my question. My question was—”

 

“Why the sparrows are carrying coconuts rather than dates? My dear student, how perceptive you are! Ahem. The answer, of course, is—”

 

Degorramacles cut Winston, and nothing more, off irately: “Great Winston, and nothing more, that is not my question!”

 

Winston, and nothing more puffed himself up proudly, slowly turning red in the face. “Degorramacles, DO NOT interrupt! That is very rude. The answer,” he continued, “is that the sparrows can more easily grasp coconuts than dates because of the hairy husk.” He narrowed his eyes at Degorramacles and sniffed. “That is enough curiosity for today. Ahem. Please do your work.”

 

And so Degorramacles’ education went, for many years thereafter, until she was the wisest student in H.S. and was very easily able to figure out after only a few attempts that her teachers were unable to answer her questions, and that it was best to just keep them to herself.

Edited December 4, 2009 by Degorram

[Snypiuer]

I like it. Actually can relate from both sides (student and teacher).

 

Snypiuer basically slept through his entire schooling - finding his teachers to be less then adequate. So, became a physics major when he went to college (though did not finish a degree for reasons soon to be revealed) and was headed toward a future in education - which he was, without a doubt, greatly needed (based on his prior exposure to inadequate educators). Having gained enough credits to substitute teach, Snypiuer wisely did so for 2 years - in order to verify that this was, in deed, what he should make of his life. After teaching (I was that foolish sub that actually attempted to teach instead of babysit) every grade from kindergarten to H.S. seniors and drop out retention students (actually did 4 months as a permanent freshman algebra sub), Snypiuer concluded three things:

 

1. Academia actually deteriorates ones intelligence.

2. Snypiuer hates children (more so then his disdain for people in general)

3. Finally, that students are evil and must be eradicated - which, for some unknown reason, my superiors (while agreeing with me) did not share my willingness to implement a final solution to achieve this objective.

 

Thus ended, not only, Snypiuer's teaching career, but also his education - seeing no reason to continue, since all his dreams of being a positive influence in the molding of the minds of future generations had been thoroughly crushed.

 

So, this is why your story makes me giggle on many levels!

 

THANKS FOR WRITING IT !