EARLY BIRD REPORT CARD
Student: Lindsay Atkins
Teacher: Mr. Pasha Malla
Writing and Expression of Ideas:
Yes, well “expression” is all relative, isn’t it? If expressing oneself entails butchering the English language into a vague sequence of pictograms and reversed letters, then Lindsay is a regular Descartes. Sadly, however, on the Planet Earth we tend to use syntactical constructions to create meaning; “Likes my dad mom ponies,” for example, while a vague approximation of something approaching a sentence, seems more the sort of pidgin nonsense spouted by drunken frat boys and the mentally insane. Grade: F.
Oh, if only we could get through life using only words ending in “at.” A world of cats, hats, bats, and mats would be a marvellous place, wouldn’t it, Lindsay? Marvellous, certainly, but also logistically inconceivable. How a seven-year-old translates “dog” into “B-U-G” is beyond me. “Oh, Daddy, can we take the bug for a walk?” No. Grade: D+.
Let’s try this again: six to the root power of three equals? Equals? Five? Grade: F.
The use of the word “skills” here is relative. Compared to, say, a newborn child or a raccoon, Lindsay is a remarkably proficient reader. However, the memorization of three pages of Wacky Wednesday will never qualify anyone for a second-grade reading credit in my class. Did Lindsay even look at the copy of Joyce’s The Dead I passed out at the beginning of term? Grade: D-.
From Lindsay’s Ptolemaic diagram of the solar system, I take it that, for whatever ungodly reason, there remain a few foolish cynics who ignore five hundred years of science, satellite photographs, and irrefutable astronomic evidence of a heliocentric universe. No, Lindsay, the planets do not revolve around the earth, and this class does not revolve around you. Grade: F.
The first class project of the year entailed covering a balloon with papier maché, and from this shape forming some make of puppet. Certainly not my choice, but I am apparently rendered powerless once Ms. Morrow steps into the classroom—she with her unshaven armpits and foolhardy notions of art. By the age of seven, Pablo Picasso was already working in oils; Lindsay, meanwhile, ate most of the podgy paste, and I caught her whacking a balloon about with another student. This is not how genius is born. Grade: F.
Répètes après moi: F.
The notes passed onto me by Mrs. Kitching suggest that Lindsay is “a fun addition to the class,” which I am compelled to disbelieve. Permit me to offer my own impressions: I have seen Lindsay run about the playground, and while no athlete myself, I find her technique haphazard and disconcerting. I have had the pleasure of watching the Olympics on television, and rarely do I see sprinters shrieking while they make their way along the track. In lieu of Mrs. Kitching’s A+, I offer a compromise. Grade: C.
This class is generally a nightmare, but even amidst the cacophony of voices Lindsay stands out as particularly inept. I am certain poor Mozart is rolling over in his grave. Also unnerving are Linsday’s persistent requests to “sing something we know.” Indeed! Are we in an institution of learning to row row row our boats or jingle our bells? I think not. Grade: D-.
I am terrified of what may become of the world under the rule of creatures such as Lindsay Atkins. I say this not as a teacher, but as a concerned and conscientious human being. Lindsay takes the word frivolity to new heights. Her personal hygiene is questionable (something simply must be done about those chapped lips—they seem to be spreading in a red rash onto her face) and I have repeatedly had to reprimand her for refusing to call me “Sir.” While her jibes about my surname (Mr. Mal-á-la-tête, Mr. Smell-a, etc.) are particularly scathing, I find her presence in the class generally disruptive; she is the sort of anarchic ringleader who, unless trained otherwise, will spend a lifetime derailing fundamental principles of goodness and order. I recommend military school. Please find attached a list of contacts in academies around the country.
Mr. Pasha Malla