This is a question that I seriously pondered last summer.
I sure as hell qualifiy for it. Especially after thirty-two years of service.
But if I retire, what the hell would I do with my life?
I would love to just kick back and go fishing every day. Get my boat out into the water by the crack of dawn, and then fish and drink beer, until the sun sets. That's what I call living.
Another thought I've had is to start up my own talk radio program. If ol' Rush can do it, and keep right on going, in spite of all his personal problems, then I should be able to shine. Especially with my good clean bill of mental health.
Another idea is to open up my own barber shop.
My old man was a barber and a damned good one too. When I was a young man, I used to earn some decent spare change during the summer, by helping him out with little odd jobs, such as sweeping the floor, and anything else that needed to be done.
This was during a very tumultuous time in our nation's history, when all the hippies were trying to take over our country.
I swear to God, I will never forget this one particular day. It was the summer of 1971. Two of these stinking hippie longhairs came into his shop and tried to stir up some trouble.
They were strutting around the shop, laughing, cursing, splashing on my old man's bay rum, and acting like total *******s. They also stank of marijuana smoke.
Then they started to bad mouth Richard Nixon, Sprio Agnew, and the Vietnam War. Finally, one of them walked right up to my old man and blew pot smoke in his face.
This was the last straw. I grabbed these two punks by the back of their necks and sent them both flying out the door. Then I proceeded to kick their sorry asses from one end of the parking lot to the other, and then out into the nearest street, sending chunks of gravel flying into their faces.
All they could do was curse at me helplessly, turning tail and retreating the entire time, just like the cowardly and dirty yellow stinking egg sucking dogs they truly were.
What else could they do? They were just a couple of spoiled sissy hippie mama's boys who couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Obviously, they had never dealt with a man like me before.
Needless to say, my old man never had any trouble at his shop afterwards.
Those were the days. Later on that year, the team of Nixon and Agnew were re-elected by a landslide. Life became good again.
Then all that Watergate crap came around and ruined things. Then we hit a new low again when Jimmy Carter got elected.
Fortunately, Ronald Reagan came along four years later and took care of all of that other leftover hippie nonsense. Kicked the hell out of Soviet Communism and the Cold War to boot. Made people feel proud to be an American once again. Patriotism became popular again.
Fast forward about twenty some years later.
During my vacation in August of last year, I spent a couple of weeks in a small town in Louisiana, where I recently bought some property, for some hunting and fishing.
One day, during my visit to town, I found myself a real old-fashioned barber shop. The same kind of barber shop my old man used to run. I needed a haircut, so I went inside and sat down.
While I was waiting for my turn, reading through an an old tattered copy of the Police Gazette, lo and behold, this hippie longhair came through the door. I felt like I was going through a flashback.
With a sense of duty, I walked up to the head barber and called him aside for a little conference:
"Hey look", I said. "Please let me help you out with this one. Trust me, I know how to handle this punk. If he gets out of hand, you just nod your head and I'll send his ass flying out the door and then some."
I could not believe what the barber said:
"Sir, I beg your pardon. That punk you speak of is my son. He's going into the service next week and wants to get a haircut before he goes. Is that okay with you?"
Speechless, and in a state of shock, I slinked back down to my waiting chair with my tail between my legs.
Then ten minutes later, the hippie longhair was called up for his hair cut.
Still skeptical, I still didn't believe what the barber said. I could not believe that this long haired wild eyed hippie, with his hair right down to his ass, was going to get a decent man's haircut.
How wrong I was. When he left the barber's chair, he had a haircut that would have made a United States Marine proud. A real buzz cut to boot.
I had no choice but to admit defeat. When that young man emerged from his barber chair, probably looking like a real man for the first time since he first started growing hair where it counts, I left my chair and walked right up to him.
I looked at him eye to eye. And with a genuine sense of humility, I stuck out my hand.
"Put 'er there, son. I'm damned proud of you," I said. "When you first came in through that door, I thought you were here to cause trouble. I was wrong. Now I realize you came in here because you finally decided to mend your ways and become a man. Please accept my apologies for prejudging you."
"No problem, man," he said, as he returned my shake with an iron grip. I'm going to Parris Island next week for basic training. I'm going to become a Marine, so I can do my part for our war on terrorism."
When I heard this, I gave him a hug.
"Semper Fi!" I said.
Wrapping my arm around him, we walked over to his old man, and I apologized to him as well. We then got into a little huddle.
"God Bless both of you," I said. "God bless President Bush. And God bless America!"
I learned a lot about myself over this incident. Enough so that I think I will put off my retirement for just a few years more.
For one thing, I really worry about all these young teachers out there who are being flushed up these stinking comodes that pass for the teacher training programs we have out there in our colleges and universities today. The vast majority of them are nothing more than training grounds for bed wetting liberalism.
It is no wonder that homeschooling has become such a viable and fast growing movement today. A movement which has earned my respect.
In the meantime, while I am stuck in the public school system, somebody has got to set these new teachers straight and show them the right way to do things.
Such as knocking all that political correctness out of their heads and teaching them how to administer good discipline. I can't think of anyone more qualified than myself.
The same goes for all the snot nosed punks who show up in my office every day. If I retire now, I cannot imagine anybody else who could take my place and stick it to 'em the way I can It's a great burden to be irreplaceable.
Granted, if I had my druthers, I would still rather be out there fishing every day, hosting my own talk radio program, or giving buzz cuts to hippie longhairs.
But duty calls. And until the good Lord decides otherwise, I think that my principal's office is where I will continue to do the most good.
The way I see it, the office where my students are sent is like a barber shop. And whether they like it or not, they're not getting out without a serious haircut.
No, not literally. I mean symbolically.
Trust me, if I had my way, my office would also be a barber shop. Any young snot showing up in my office with a punk or hippie haircut would get a buzz cut so fast his head will spin.
Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to do that.
On the other hand, if I can lay some serious guilt into their psyches for their rotten behavior and the ridiculous appearances which some of them present, then I can go to bed at night and sleep soundly, knowing that I am continuing to make a difference.
It's my calling in life. At least, for a few more years.
Arthur Claude Munyan, Sr.
Posts: 23 | From: Dewey Beach, Delaware | Registered: Jul 2006
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