Part 5:  Embellishment

The Bible was recounted by campfire for thousands of years before it was actually written down.  If you pass a story down from generation to generation without writing it down, you end up with a much better story than you started with.  The truth gets embellished.  

The following story is true.  

Mrs. Lochner was my third grade teacher.  I first encountered her in the hallway at Sts. Simon and Jude while I was in second grade.  I thought she was very mean.  She whipped her kids into line and barked like a drill sergeant.  But once I entered the third grade I got to know her and I loved her.  It was the first time I had a lay teacher.  I love the nuns so much.  They were always sweet to me.  Mrs. Lochner was rough as a cob.  But I loved her just as much.

One thing I noticed about the third grade.  It was strictly business.  No more laying our heads on the desk while Sister Cornelia Marie told us a story about Jesus.  No more talk of religion except during religion class.  No more discussions about what a good Catholic would do.  Lots of math drills and English lessons.  I did well.  In fact, I had perfect scores in every subject.  Mrs. Lochner said I was the only student who achieved that during her tenure.  After that, it was all downhill for me.  But I was, once again, teacher’s pet and popular with the girls.  In fact, I remember one day being chased around the playground by a bunch of girls who ran after me screaming, “Rodney!”  Yes, I peaked in the third grade.  

My true love sat next to me.  Her name was Roberta.  It was perfect, innocent puppy love.  She always wore a ponytail and she had big luscious red lips.  What a babe!  Every day Mrs. Lochner would make us exchange our spelling homework with our “neighbor.”  And every day, Roberta corrected my spelling paper and I corrected hers.  As Mrs. Lochner spelled each word aloud, Roberta and I would bob our heads to indicate that the word was properly spelled on the page in front of us.  But one day, Roberta shook her head instead of bobbing it.  I panicked.  I looked directly over at her.  A smile crept across her face and she put her finger over her mouth.  Just kidding.  


Now here’s that same story after a couple of generations of campfire retellings:

Mrs. Leadblochner was my high school teacher.  I first encountered her in the hallway at St. Judas while I was in reform school.  She was a total bitch.  She loved to whip her male students  with a two by four and barked like a drill sergeant.  But once I entered sophomore year I totally feared her fat ass.  It was the first time I had a biker for a teacher.  Her rosary was made of a Harley drive chain.  She kept it in a sack purse and used it to swipe you up side the head if you cracked wise.  She had a sick crush on me.  Once she put me on her lap in front of the whole history class and whiskered me like my dad used to.  Her beard left a big red mark on my jaw.

One thing I noticed about being in a remedial school.  It was strictly business.  No more sneaking out to the parking lot for a smoke.  No more class discussions or study time.  No more discussions about how to roll a joint.  Lots of math drills and English lessons.  I did great.  In fact, I had perfect scores in every subject.  Mrs. Leadblochner said I was the only student who achieved that during her tenure.  All I had to do was keep her stocked with heroin and life was smooth.  But I was, once again, teacher’s pet and popular with the girls.  In fact, I remember one day being chased around the garage by a bunch of bimbos who ran after me screaming, “Rodney!”  Yes, I peaked in reform school.  

My true love sat next to me.  Her name was Roberta.  She always wore a low cut halter and had the nicest ta tas you ever saw in your life.  What a babe!  Every day Mrs. Leadblochner, who was too lazy to correct our essays would make us exchange our tests with each other.  And every day, Roberta corrected mine and I corrected hers. If there was a mistake, we fixed it so Leadblocher wouldn’t know squat.  But one day, Roberta brought down the house.  Instead of fixing my paper, she acted like she had an ice cream cone.  She licked it and bit it with those enormous red lips of hers.  When she was finished, half the guys had to go to the can.  Wow.