I think we have established that The Pony is a brainiac. He lives in his head. If a brain could exist in a jar without a body, that would be The Pony. As long as he had someone to carry his jar to the back seat of T-Hoe, and type up his stories, and move the mouse for his computer games, he would be fine existing as just a brain. No need to interact with the human race. No need to drive. No need to try and help people. Only a brain, doing what brains do.
On Friday, the day before Christmas break, a half-day of school, The Pony's last class was only 30 minutes long. They had a little party. Not a party where moms bring in cupcakes and cookies and kids play Heads Up Seven Up. That's not allowed these days. Somebody might be allergic to the ingredients. Sugar is poison. And if only seven people can be picked, the rest of the kids are going to suffer a blow to their tender self-esteem. No, the party was an informal bring-your-own treat kind of deal, where The Pony and his cronies sat sedately in their desks, talking quietly, drinking the diet soda or Gatorade that is sold in the machine on premises, or convenience store cups of bootleg storebought beverages purchased during the morning community service excursion of the NHS.
During the festivities, kids started tossing a ball around the room. Apparently, this generation has never watched The Brady Bunch, and does not remember that "Mom always said, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" I guess they would need a literal translation anyway, and assume it was okay unless the teacher always said, "Don't play ball in the classroom."
It's not like they were heaving around a basketball, like those Brady boys. Or even spiraling a football that might hit a stepsister in the nose. Nor were they throwing a baseball with 101.3 mph heat like Cardinals' reliever Carlos Martinez. Nope. The kids were tossing around a yellow foam stress ball, about the size of a normal person's palm. So perhaps the title is misleading, and should be: The Pony Plays Stressball.
As you might guess, The Pony is not a stressball star. Is it not enough that he caught it without falling out of his chair, or giving himself a black eye? Good thing, too. There is no crying in stressball. And there is no protective padding.
Our little brain, The Pony, was only trying to join in. To participate fully, as other members of his class. While it was an upper level honors course of only nine pupils, they were not exactly his people. Meaning they were the smart kids, but also joiners and athletes comfortable with flinging a foam ball around the room. Unlike The Pony. He attempted a toss to his lab partner, but as with most things physical where The Pony is involved, his throw went awry. Who knew a foam stressball could knock a 44 ounce Styrofoam cup of Mountain Dew off a desk and onto the floor? Probably nobody. But The Pony made believers out of them.
Mountain Dew, people! That stuff is like Au to high school chemistry students. The magical elixir forbidden them on school premises. The Pony might as well have spilled molten gold.
He got some school paper towels to mop it up. You know how that went. School paper towels are just a little bit less absorbent than notebook paper. His teacher helped for a bit. Showed him the technique of dropping the towel and pushing it around with one foot. And told him, "Don't worry. My room is being mopped after school anyway."
The owner of the spilled treasure did not protest. In fact, when The Pony offered her cash for a replacement, she told him it was fine. No problem.
As he cleaned to the best of his ability the mess he had made, he asked, "What did you THINK would happen if you gave ME the ball?"
Indeed. Surely they remember how he broke each elbow, in two separate incidents, running down the hall, and running up the steps.
I remember the days.
ReplyDeleteWho knew Styrofoam was no match for a squishy stressball?
ReplyDeleteI am going to report that teacher to the national headquarters of WIMP (Way-Idiotic Molly-coddling Pamperers). Those poor fragile spirits are crushed when they aren't declared you're-always-a-winner.
ReplyDeleteNo more dodgeball. No more first and second place championships. And no more squishy stressball games. NeverNeverNever!
As a non-athlete who has lived in my head more than whatever the world calls reality (and let's not even go to what entertainment thinks is reality) I sincerely sympathize with Pony. Kudos to the owner of the magical elixir Dew for the non-protest. Sounds like she has good taste when it comes to both beverages and men.
ReplyDeleteAccidents happen. At least he tried to clean it up. The Pony's desire to live as just a "brain" might change when he becomes serious about someone.
ReplyDeleteCatalyst,
ReplyDeleteI hope you didn't break both elbows running in the hall at school! If you did, repress, repress, repress those memories!
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joeh,
Is that a rhetorical question? Or is an answer expected? Because Val purely loves to hear herself talk, and read her own writing, she will treat it as a real question.
Who knew Styrofoam was no match for a squishy stressball? Not the Mountain Dew drinker. Not The Pony. Not the intended catcher of The Pony's throw. The only one who knew for certain, I suspect, was the custodian, who had most likely mopped up previous Styrofoam/Mountain Dew explosions.
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Sioux,
Be careful. I hear word on the hall is that tattletales get ponytails...caught in the faculty women's restroom sink drain.
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Leenie,
Maybe you and The Pony will end up in adjacent jars on a shelf one of these days. Don't expect him to reach out to you telepathically. He really doesn't care about people.
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Stephen,
The Pony is seeking a kindred spirit over the phone towers. He is texting morning, noon, and evening with a gal he met at the reunion of HIS PEOPLE in November. Not that I can persuade him to invite her to the school Sweetheart Dance in February. "She lives too far away. Almost 45 minutes!"
He acts like she's from Canada.