Years ago, as many of you know, I, Agatha Trunchbull, was driven from my career in education by a telekinetic pest with a vendetta against me. I had struggled for years to rise as a woman in the male-dominated industry of school principalship. When I finally achieved my leadership position, it was on the back of my own patented methods. I was, as one might say today, something of a girlboss. But then I was maligned. I was called a brute and a monster. Led by that sorcerous pipsqueak, the children formed a little parade to chase me from my rightful place.
I’ll admit, my methods were unorthodox. It was unusual for a school principal to carry a riding crop and hurl students through windows. Those are not standard discipline practices, and it was the tenor of the time to reject them. But after more than a year of the pandemic, you know the truth deep in your heart. I wasn’t wrong to do those things. I was, in fact, the only sane one. You want me back.
In remote learning, you’ve been witness to it all. You’ve seen the back-talk. You’ve seen the eye-rolls. You’ve seen them shut off the internet router in the middle of a lesson with a devious cackle. Your hair has gone gray, your voices are hoarse, and your blood pressure is skyrocketing. You’re realizing what I have always known: your children are not sweet. They never have been. They’re giant, mischievous pustules. How do you treat pustules? My dears, you pop them.
How did you react when you were home, slaving away over some spreadsheet that was due in an hour, only to look up and see your monstrous issue playing Grand Theft Auto in the middle of geometry? Did you speak to your darling in honeyed tones and convince him how badly he needed to know the Pythagorean theorem? Admit it, you went Hulk Mode. And I don’t blame you.
What about when you received that email from your daughter’s Spanish teacher saying that your daughter was logging into class from inside a pillow fort? You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t fantasized about grabbing her by the pigtails and hurling her into a distant field. The only difference between you and me is that you lack the conviction to do so, as well as the upper body strength. You need someone in your life who has both. You need Miss Agatha.
It wasn’t just schoolwork. You risked your health to go to the grocery store, only to have your water buffalo offspring demolish your week’s worth of food in a matter of hours. Wouldn’t it have been nice to make them really feel that injustice? In my book, the best tutor of moderation is public shame. You and I both agree: we should force-feed your child an entire chocolate cake in front of a crowd to make a point.
Some of you are doubtless protesting. No, my child is the sweet one! Ha! If any sweet children exist, they are the most slippery. Have you noticed any objects out of place while you and your darling have been at home? Car keys gone? Wallet moved? Maybe a fifty slipped out of it? Watch out. Someone in your house is developing telekinesis. You’re just trying to do your job as a data analyst or whatever it is you people do. Meanwhile, your child is in the kitchen, making an unbelievable mess with her psychic powers. Believe me, it won’t stop there. Wait until she’s conspiring against you. Soon your little viper will use her cursed abilities to write chalk messages accusing you of murder. No one doubts a ghost, of course, so there won’t even be an investigation. You’ll wander the countryside, a laughingstock, while a usurper child steals your life away.
It’s clear. You need me. Everything has gone loosey-goosey during this pandemic, but we can’t let the schools be like zoos with their gates left open. Put masks on your filthy children (not for health reasons, just to hide their faces) and send them to me. What they really need is a broad-shouldered woman in a militaristic uniform, tightly cinched at the waist. They need a high, dark bun fallen menacingly out of place. They need fear. They need Agatha Trunchbull. Mama’s ready to get back in the game.