Tag Archives: boys

1576. Stink bombs

 

As every boy knows (or should know), if you crush the seed of a wattle (some might call a wattle a mimosa or an acacia) and spit on it, it is a stink bomb. Money need not be spent on purchasing stink bombs from the local trick shop. Of course, there might be places in the world where wattle trees won’t grow, such as at the North Pole, so Santa’s elves may have to buy theirs. A spat-upon crushed wattle seed stinks like the most humongous fart. It is colossally funny. It is a marvellous trick to play, especially on girls. (This is in the days before it was decided that both sexes were the same).

Larry and Barnaby were seven-year olds. Larry’s older brother had told him about stink bombs. Larry and Barnaby got some wattle seeds. They crushed them and when they were in the classroom they spat on them, hid them, and waited. What a stink!

The teacher entered the room and everyone stood up. (This was in the old days when pupils stood up when someone important entered the room). The teacher didn’t blink an eye. Pooh! The smell!

“It’s a bit chilly in here,” said the teacher. “Shut the windows.” (This is in the days when classrooms windows could be opened and closed).

“I have to go and see Mrs Turner in Room Seven,” said the teacher. “While I am gone I want you to do Exercise Fourteen on Page Seven.” (This is in the days when pupils could briefly be left on their own to do some work).

The other boys ganged up on Larry and Barnaby. The two boys had to find and pick up the stink bombs and toss them out the window.

This was done. The teacher returned. No one, except for Bianca, had done Exercise Fourteen on Page Seven. Nothing was ever said. (This is in the days when teachers didn’t have to write long reports on every misdemeanour of every child and file it permanently on a computer).

Ah! Stink bombs need not be dealt with again, until next year’s new batch of boys.

1433. Terrified silly

Ms Hamilton taught the nine-year olds. She was a bit old-fashioned. For example, she sometimes made the class learn a poem off by heart.

She would make the whole class recite the memorized poem altogether, in class. And then sometimes, she would ask a pupil to recite the poem solo.

On this particular day the nine-year old boys were terrified silly. What if Ms Hamilton asked one of them to recite the poem solo? The last line was “And let a tree sigh with her bosom over me.”

Not a single boy wanted to say the word “bosom” out loud in class.

Poem 70: Into nothing

All the empires of this world will crumble into nothing.
Strident protests of our time will tumble into nothing.

The homeless in the byways, in makeshift cardboard boxes,
hold out their hands in pleas for bread, fumble into nothing.

Young men in search of meaning in empty, shallow hangouts,
find all their courage dashed as they stumble into nothing.

Vibrant women, scarce seen and rarely heard from day to day,
are told to cook, knit, and sew, and humble into nothing.

Growing boys play in the park; they tussle, combat, battle.
Boys! Don’t fight! and watch your manhood rumble into nothing.

Captured girls sold abroad as slaves are going cheap this year;
their hopes, dreams, and aspirations jumble into nothing.

And Bruce? I know my words won’t echo far in time’s good hands.
I hope a crumb or two might not mumble into nothing.

1224. Testosterone

It was Fredericka’s first year of teaching at a High School. In fact, it was her first day. The principal had told her to “dress modestly”. Dress modestly! What an old-fashioned concept! What an old-fashioned expression! She would dress tastefully! Fashionably! Appropriately!

Fredericka chose to wear a loose white blouse with the top buttons undone. It was, after all, still hot from the dying summer. And she chose a “modest” brown skirt with a slit up to the lower thigh that was both cooling and feminine.

Well! The testosterone in the class of sixteen year old boys! Fredericka could smell it. It was overbearing.

“Boys! Boys! Open the windows! It’s stuffy in here!”

The excitement when Fredericka reached up to open a high window.

“Boys! Boys! Let us have less tomfoolery!”

That did it. That took the cake. Fredericka would not change the way she dressed. She wouldn’t change because of a classroom of chauvinistic sex-ridden boys. It’s the boys that needed to change. They needed to learn to produce less testosterone. Tomorrow she would begin such a lesson. She would wear the shortest skirt she could find, and God help any boy who misbehaved.

1144. Porn in tent

Randy, Chuck, and Kurt were three teenagers on a boys’ camp. They were in the tent at night and Randy said, “Let’s see who can tell the best bit of porn.”

Kurt said he’d go first.

“There was the woman and she sent her son out one evening to get something for dinner. She told him to buy something decent and not come back with fast food. So he came back with some snails.”

“That’s not porn,” said Chuck.

“Oh,” said Kurt, “I thought you said corn.”

1116. Big Bad Wolf

Little Red Riding Hood was skipping her way merrily through the forest, holding a basket of food that she was taking to her grandmother.

Suddenly a wolf appeared from nowhere.

“What big teeth you have,” said the wolf.

“There’s no need to get personal,” said Little Red Riding Hood.

“What big feet you have,” said the wolf.

“Now you’re getting silly,” said Little Red Riding Hood.

“Let me look in the basket to see what you are taking to your grandmother,” said the wolf.

“Go away,” said Little Red Riding Hood. “I hate it when little boys dress up and follow me around like a bad smell.”

So the Big Bad Wolf scampered off. He would try to find Anita Alder. She was a scaredy-pants. She always screamed when he gave her a fright.

959. For the boys

959saturday

Oswald was the youngest of five boys. Oswald was sixteen. His entire football team was coming around on Saturday afternoon to watch a video of the game. They would squeeze into “The Den” around an old television set and shout at the screen.

Mrs Borrie was used to it. She’d done it dozens of times before. Teenage boys on a Saturday afternoon. Patiently she buttered sixteen loaves of bread and made sandwiches with a dozen different fillings. She put out bottles of homemade cordial.

The football team ate while watching the game. Then it was games on Mrs Borrie’s old pool table.

Eventually they all went home. “Gotta get home now, thanks Mrs Borrie. It’ll be dinner time.”

“I don’t know how you do,” said Mrs Prout to Mrs Borrie. “Let me rephrase that: I don’t know why you do it. If they want to eat they should bring their own food.”

“The cost of sixteen loaves of bread is a small price to pay to know where they are,” said Mrs Borrie. “I’d rather they were messing around in the den than messing around in the God knows where.”

Mrs Prout took it to heart. Most Saturdays after that she sent along a large plate of sandwiches. “For the boys”.

850. First date

850date

Helene’s sex education had… um… shall we say… gaps. And here she was, about to go out on a date with her first “boyfriend”. A boyfriend! She couldn’t believe it!

Her mother gave her some last minute advice:

Boys such as Alphonse have one thing in mind. Just remember that. He’ll be all over you. Boys are like octopuses; arms everywhere. Just watch he doesn’t strangle you with his tentacles.

That got Helene stumped. She went on the date. She was watchful. She wondered the whole time how a boy could possibly strangle someone with his tentacles.

620. Jim hated rugby

© Bruce Goodman 22 June 2015

620rugby

Jim hated rugby. He went to an all-boys secondary school, where rugby was compulsory. In a single season rugby would turn a boy into a man.

Jim hated the violent tackles, the scrums, the rucking. He hated the aggression.

“Make yourself angry,” said the coach, “and you’ll play better.”

Jim hated the culture that went with it; the brouhaha, the ruckus, the hubbub that excitedly surrounded those in the top teams.

“There’s one of them now! There he goes! Let me touch him!” It’s like everyone in the school except Jim was a latent homosexual, and yet the inference was that the gay life was Jim’s preference because he hated rugby. He hated rugby, the queer.

Jim hated the mud, the smell of liniment, the boots, the sprigs. He hated the showers after the game, fifteen young guys all crammed into the open shower unit. He hated the talk.

“Yours is bigger than mine,” like they wanted to borrow it or something. “Fuck yeah.”

Jim hated the whole damn thing. He loathed school because of it. He dreaded life for the fifteen weeks of the season. Boy into man… boy into man…

Anyway…

One day a scrum collapsed and Jim broke his neck.

The school was shocked, chastened, mortified. They consoled themselves. All teams wore black armbands the following week. Jim’s obituary read:

He died doing something we all love.