Catholic School, Butts Kicked, & Sister Shaq Diesel

   
   "Catholic School, Butts Kicked, & Sister Shaq Diesel"
    
   My history teacher, punishing me for an outburst I did not commit--even in that mistake of violence, I really didn't give a rat's ass, just let it awesomely propel my pulsating infamy.
   He, the history teacher, grabbed me from my desk, during the 9th grade mind you, threw me up against the chalk board, lashed me numerous times on my back with a yardstick; next, made me kneel on the heater, praying to the heater god for obedience.  Too, my Catholic Football Coach violently slapped my face-masked face for not tackling with a sincere intensity--good for the man-smelling Coach.  I suffered two fractures playing ball that freshmen year, and I initiated no litigation against the school.  A school where you could mystically invoke the Holy Spirit, God Himself, Christ, or the Virgin Mother without getting suspended or arrested.
   Better to be a spirited coyote nowadays, surviving on rabbit marrow, burping up and shitting the remains on your adversary's front porch during the sublime mischief of Halloween.  However, in today's America, CSI will test the fecal matter and you'll get three years in the sodomizing pokey; moreover, the liberal feminists don't give a holy damn concerning a man's intestinal tract suffering many megadeaths and the ruination of proper stool formation, ever-after.  What a great fucking country.
   Like when I crafted a bizarre yet magnanimous poem containing no fighting words, no clear and present danger; plus, it was ambiguous, and I was wrongfully threatened with the wicked dream of prosecution to appease the sanctimonious fiction of a mentally-deranged girl full of a fervent sex drive, contaminating my Bill of Rights with a condemnation birthed out of wounded pride.  Don't ever think it's over.  This life is just the womb, and it all comes back on you.  As for me--I was already kicked out of hell for selling ice cream.   

POST SCRIPT:  I love you Sister Shaq Diesel.