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Hi. I'm Avery. 15. Hockey is kind of my life.

Flyers, Stars, Sabres, Jackets

Anonymous asked: please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.

mysticmoonhigh:

mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT

bunsen:

i don’t think there’s anything worse than not being able to finish your lap in mario kart because ur in last place what kind of discrimination is that 

(via steagosaurus)

revedas:

babynatxo:

dandelionpunx:

Whoever wants to eat cookie dough and not get salmonella. Here ya go!

omg

Every woman? EVERY PERSON ON EARTH, MARS, OR WHEREVER THE HELL YOU ARE SHOULD HAVE THIS RECIPE.

marchandmad:

But she wears short skirts
I wear *hockey jerseys, shirseys, any kind of merch related to hockey
She’s cheer captain
And I’m on the bleachers *screaming at the refs, my players, the other team and other fans about anything and everything hockey 

Dreaming about the day when they wake up and find
*That the fucking puck needs to go in the net and its been that way the whole time

(via officialpatrickkane)

bombasticunicorn:

thewomanfromitaly:

listengirlfriends:

When it comes to objectification, this is a great example of why comparing male strip clubs to Hooters is a “false equivalent.”

i’m creating a kickstarter for cojones right now

HOLY SHIT THO
auplaz:

Alright guys, this shit got me heated. 
So today as I was getting ready for school, I get a call from my youngest sister’s elementary school clinic. My sister gets on the phone and tells me she is sitting out of class because her skirt is too short. “You need to bring me one that goes down to my knees, they said,” is what she told me.
Quick recap: My sister is eleven years old, in fifth grade, and has some mental and physical disabilities. She’s the tallest girl in her class. Also, the dress code states her skirt must be down to her fingertips, not her knees.
When I get there, I insisted I see her instead of just dropping her stuff off. I was not suprised to find her with a skirt obviously within the rules of the dress code. I asked her what class she was missing and she told me math. She’d been sitting out for atleast twenty or thirty minutes while she waited for me to come.
She only learns things at about a third of the pace as everyone else in her class. Even missing this short amount of time means missing a lot of information for her. Just to recap: she has to sit out of class because of the length of her skirt. She can’t even just sit in her classroom while she waits for me, because apparently that’s too distracting. To whom, you ask? I can’t really tell you. Are ten year old boys, fifth grade boys already old enough to be sexualizing her to the point that they were going so insane with horniness that they had to whisk her away until she could put on something ‘decent’. 
So not only are the sexualizing a fifth grader, they are giving her different rules for the dress code based on her height and making her miss valuable class time. This bullshit needs to stop. Eleven goddamn years old and she’s already being taught her body isn’t her own anymore, that she’s being too provocative if she wears a skirt to the same standard as all the other short, skinny girls in her class just because she looks older.
As a P.S., I would like to point out that she is already bullied because of her disabilities. Pulling her out of class and making her change is even more of an embarrassment, and only leads to more teasing. 
evgeniemalkin:

evgeniemalkin:

that quality canadian education we all know and love

holy shit lmao
prongerlovesteaks:

Ghost lookin like a young Mark Streit from the slot

So there’s a mollusk, and a sea cucumber….

hippieslovesunshine:

The mollusk walks up, well. not walks up, SWIMS up and says, well.. he doesn’t talk.. Alright, lemme start over.

(via teganquinruinedmylife)

e-brat:

cool advice too all girls: unlearn internalized misogyny and surround urself with other girls and do fun things together like…. for example… form into one giant “super girl” and destroy the world

(via steagosaurus)

Warning Major Spoiler!

onesentencemusings:

bagelr:

image

Moment of silence for all the people who will never see this joke because they blocked the word ‘Spoiler’.

(via winning-raffl-ticket)

whobloidlostingublerlandsbakerst:

enochian-ribcage:

iprayforangels:

gueraxloca:

tmodm19:

She cut off the tattoo of her cheating ex’s name, put it in a jar, and mailed it to him.

She’s badass

holy shit. imagine him opening. i shit myself

MY ARM HURTS JUST FROM LOOKING AT IT

*Jaw drops* This woman is probably the most badass woman ever and there for should be highly respected and not cheated on ever.

(via lilytiger15)

hockeyismyreligon:

Score something Im giving up on you. 

(via schennylane)

setiaprenn:

doncasturbate:

doncasturbate:

that awkward moment when I try to switch Niall and Ellen’s faces and they still look like themselves

stop reblogging this before ellen sees it and puts it on her fucking show

let’s reblog this till ellen sees this and puts it on her fucking show

(Source: doncasperbate, via broad-street-bullies)

When someone walks slower than me: omfg your slow ass is clogging up the hallway for the rest of us put some pep in your step grandma
When someone walks faster than me: jesus christ are you on the run from the police this isn't a race you can tone it down usain bolt
When someone walks at the same pace as me: who gave your creepy ass permission to walk with me get the fuck away before I call the cops