School Talent Show

The skit began with a markedly funny premise: two women discussing sports. Dreary results. Sarah and Emily from Ms. Franklin’s fourth-grade class recited the most elementary—and frankly grating—dialogue imaginable. Apparently, the girls wanted the audience to believe that a character by the name of “Who” was playing the position of first base, that “What” manned second, and that “I Don’t Know” covered third for a particular baseball team. Sarah and Emily, I’m sure you are too distracted by your Grady Sizemore crush to be bothered to learn how the farm system works, but it would be very, very unlikely that all those players would end up on the same team at the same time, and it made your attempt at humor very unbelievable and muddled. Even I couldn’t follow the damn thing, and I’m a man who is remarkably clever. It seemed a shame that the girls received a standing ovation for their dismal performance while boys all over the country are given detention for trying to light their farts on fire during recess, which is fucking hysterical.

Ms. Barbanti’s Second-Grade Class

I visited Ms. Barbanti’s second-grade class for show-and-tell. Genevieve Mays announced the arrival of her new little brother, Lance, and passed around a picture of the mewling, puking thing. I waited a few moments, allowing ample time for one of the girls to say something about how faggy the name Lance was, but—of course—I ended up having to make the joke myself. One of the girls did ask me why I would call Lance a “fraggle,” but it was merely naive and not funny. I am certain that a class of boys would have beaten me to the joke, and would probably have included a clever pun wherein they related the name “Lance” to a part of the male anatomy, which I (regretfully) overlooked. The girls just oohed and aahed over little Lance’s picture, their young uteruses already crowding out their funny bones.

Mrs. Garvey’s Sixth-Grade Class

If you ever desire to see a large group of dour young girls staring humorlessly at you, go to Mrs. Garvey’s sixth-grade class during sex ed and make a vagina joke. But don’t do the one about the very hungry caterpillar, because Mrs. Garvey will make you stop halfway through. Not that it matters, as these girls were entirely preoccupied with asking the most obvious questions about their biology. How badly do cramps hurt? How long does a period last? Should they have gotten theirs yet? Who the fuck cares, when surrounded by the hilarity of the reproductive system? When Mrs. Garvey, pressed for time, asked if they could “handle doing the male anatomy” tomorrow, no one even batted an eyelash, even with my prompt and loud guffaw. They seemed distant with me whenever I tried to liven up the afternoon by displaying my own knowledge of both the female anatomy and humor. I’d like to believe it was due to their age, but because Mrs. Garvey simply stared at me when I attempted to verbally illustrate to the girls why menstrual blood was nature’s Astroglide, I am sad to say that it is more universal than that. Like I said, women just aren’t funny.