Imagine this.
It's Tuesday. Not quite as bad as Monday, but still no hope for the weekend just yet. Trudging to my next, for lack of a better adjective, "blow-off" class and it happens to be Graphic Arts II, and quite an eclectic crowd of seniors. We have your typical heavy, overly obsessed Happy Bunny Time female. There's the kid that could play Napoleon Dynamite if ever there was a sequel. Then there's that asshole kid with the jokes like, "Why don't people in Thailand take showers? Anyone? Anyone? 'Cause they wash up on shore." And of course, the boy who plays Ace of Base on his computer while photoshoping provocative scenes involving big eyed, fantastical women with short heights and smaller breasts, i.e. anime.
Fairly average day, really. There's no curriculum so most of us are on our xangas or checking out the latest rant via Foamy the Squirrel. For those of you who do not attend Lee's Summit High School, there is a sort of speak cult of computer programmers on staff who are made up of mostly and only large women. They are a small threat but as a rule of thumb, when they enter any classroom containing computers and you’re doing something other than what you should be, you “x” out and open a Word document and pretend to type English literature. Chances are, they have tracked you down by use of the server (which connects all the computers in the school, making it impossible to do something without having them be able to find out about it) and they have come to knock you down off your orange plastic chair and beat you with your own mouse. So necessary precautions are taken, always. Usually, they don’t do more than converse with the teacher and head out, but today was an exception.
On any usual occasion, the women do not run in packs, but today they came in a duo. The black lady said very little while the other very tall, very large, very white and almost wet looking women could hardly keep to herself before entering our Graphic Arts II. Everyone immediately closed their Internet Explorers and proceeded to a text application. Stopping at the doorway, she glared at the class, pinpointing the monitor with an “8” sticker in its top left hand corner. The heavy white geek approached the anime kid and started to shout without consent from the teacher to enter, or the kid’s consent to push her roll in his face as he sat at a perfect height where he belly button might be had it not been covered by more flesh.
“Didyoutypethemessageyea?!”
At this point everyone stopped, literally, doing whatever they were doing and stared, with heads a little lowered and mouths gaping, at the very strange interjection. The anime kid was stunned. He attempted to plead innocent after laughing a little but this woman wasn’t effing around. Again:
“Didyoutypethemessageyea?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shoving the chair and the boy on it into the kid on the computer next to him, she checked for an identification number only to find a fault in the system.
“This isn’t eight. This is twelve.”
Still everyone was completely silent staring at the strange situation, so it was odd for her to speak, knowing that she wasn’t talking to anyone but herself. She stood and, in a very dramatic manner counted backwards. Walking slowly, she pointed to every computer on her countdown, like a wicked game of duck-duck-goose, only by goose I mean death. Each pupil flinching as their turn came up, sighing as she passed.
“Twelve. Eleven. Ten…”
And it was then that I saw an apple among the oranges. One boy, dressed as if he washed up on the Hollister shores, was not watching the countdown. Focused intently on the monitor in front of him, never typing but never removing his eyes from the window “Document 1 – Microsoft Word”, he knew he would be…. number eight.
“…Nine. Eight!”
“I’msorryIdidn’tknowwhatIwasdoingIjustthoughtitwouldbefunnyifIsentamess
agetoeveryoneinmyclassbutIgottheIPaddresswrongIguessandI’msorryIdidn’
tknowwhatIwasdoing!”
The large white women began to huff, and for a second I imagined her dragging her left foot a cross the floor as if to charge and smoke blew out her nose that suddenly donned a circular brass ring. This hacker was done for. His message had ended up on the principal’s desk and not two minutes after he had accidentally sent it, here were these women here to kill him with his own computer extension. You don’t mess with Faulkenberry.
Two minutes ago at the principal's desk:
Faulkenberry-
”Mmm hmmm. ‘Do you like provocative scenes involving big-eyed, fantastical women with short heights and smaller breasts?’ Why, yes. ‘Are you older than eighteen years of age?’ Indeed I am. ‘Then this site is for you.’ Yes, yes it is. Jolly good.”
-Suddenly-
[Message from Computer 8, Lab BB]
”YEA”
Faulkenberry-
”WTF, mate?”
So to make a long story short they borrowed my chair to reach the ceiling while Keith Montgomery made a noose out of the computer mouse and they hung a kid named Micah Vincent for hacking into the system and sending a message to every computer in the Lee’s Summit High School network saying “YEA” expect for Lab BB. Who knew.
They're writing a story about him in the upcoming HiLife. It'll be somewhere in the obituarary section of the school paper.
Addition Observation
If xanga were a real community, and playful_misspellings were a real person, I'd be first to give reason to the creation of xanga cops, being that I would commit arson to the blogring Andrew is the King of Xanga. Sixty-four people apparently worship my boyfriend in his blogging abilities. How should I feel about that people. | 
