The Dismal Chore Competition

Pardon me. I must change the terminology when discussing yesterday's subject. I don't want to be tracked like an inept bank robber dropping his driver's license at the scene. I must fly by night. Remain under the radar. Operate in stealth mode. Go undetected.

When we last convened, I, and other practitioners of the Socratic method, were in the midst of festooning our portals with holiday themes. There were, among us, a plethora of flimflam artists. Those who placed their toes across the starting line before the starter's gun went off. Daring him to call a false start. Or disqualify. Those pumpkin-eaters were duly noted by the head judge.

Val's ingress-adorning plan was prepared in her assigned work abode, by her fifth hour students, in advance. Construction was completed yesterday. And the whole kit 'n' caboodle affixed to the entryway today. Fifth hour. Strapped to the portal proper.

Some young scholars had the gall to ask if they might miss my class in order to stay with their fifth-hour instructors and work on their doors. Poppycock! One does not arm one's enemies. Nor one's competitors. A solid round of nays was issued from my lips. The same lips that attempted to call the traitors in the venue where they were chillin', only to receive no response. So Val did what any disgruntled entrant would do. Called the secretary of the Minister of Dismal Chores, and requested the presence of the skippers. The lair of the clandestine chore compers was left bereft of Val's attempted title-swindlers.

I knew the fix was in when the judge and jury strolled by at the beginning of seventh hour. I had half-way propped open the beauteous barrier so the the proboscis of the rotund blizzard-male did not accordion in on itself after striking the wall of the recessed entrance. They paused a mere three seconds, nodded, and moved on. I ran out, shouting down the corridor, "I'm closing it now. So you can get the full effect." They looked at my like I was something odiferous clinging to the bottoms of their shoes.

The winner was announced at the end of seventh hour. Howls of protest floated up to the drop ceiling. It seems that the Grand Wiener had not only coerced the pupils of her other periods into laboring for free, and to help the opposition...but had also used a hatch not indigenous to her assigned abode. One across the concourse, that was not required to open and close hourly. Because the design was a replica of my own, but in three dimensions, and a regular, rule-abiding mounting would have rendered it flattened.

I instructed the complainers to file a formal complaint. Even though a reversal would result in me taking prize pizza out of my own Pony's mouth.

What's fair is fair.