“My Favorite Holiday,” an essay by Deborah Webster

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“My Favorite Holiday,” an essay by Deborah Webster
Class: American History
Teacher: Mr. Dimpyl
Date: Time to get a calendar

Note: So I know we were supposed to write about pilgrims for your class but I think history is kind of boring and I would much rather write an essay about my favorite holiday, which is Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving has to do with Pilgrims so it’s almost like writing the same thing. I don’t want you to give me a bad grade so I’ll just quickly tell you some things I’ve learned about Pilgrims so you know that I pay attention in your class.

Pilgrims are more than just badly-dressed dolls or lawn ornaments that people put out around Thanksgiving to remind people that turkey time is just around the corner (fyi: “turkey time” is slang for Thanksgiving). Dressed in boots with buckles on them, white socks, capris and weird hats, pilgrims were seventeenth-century English Puritans who came to live in Plymouth Colony in Plymouth, Massachussets. They fought with a lot of Indians (probably about whose hats were dorkier) and after the Indians gave the Pilgrims a really hard time for no reason, the tawny savages all died or gave up, probably because they were always naked and got cold. The Pilgrims were the second English settlement in what went on to become the U.S. of A., which is where I live (and it’s where you live, too, Dimpyl!).

So that’s all I’m gonna say about that. Now for my essay. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving for a lot of different reasons. The first reason is that my mom melts little marshmallows all over boiled yams and it tastes good, especially when washed down with a tall glass of banana Yoo-Hoo. Blue Robin and I used to have count-downs to Thanksgiving (our families celebrate together), but no count-down this year because this year I became popular and so we don’t talk that much anymore.

Another reason why I love Thanksgiving is that Jennifer Chicken always wears little ceramic turkey earrings in her ears the day before we get out for break, and they bobble up and down like poetry in motion. I made some turkey earrings of my own out of felt in art class this year and plan on wearing them on the same day she wears hers; now that I’m popular it only seems fit. I used googly eyes for them and everything so I’m sure they’ll be a hit.

Also, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because we don’t have to be in school for it (no offense!) and if I said Christmas was my favorite holiday it would be too obvious, even though honestly Christmas is my favorite holiday. The things I have to be grateful for this year are the following: 1.) I’m the one Timmy Bones will ultimately end up bringing to the Holiday Hop even though he’s currently playing hard to get 2.) the fact that no one besides Timmy Bones knows that I lie daily about being a teen model, 3.) the fact that my mom knows how to make the savoriest stuffing EVER 4.) the fact that my breasts are starting to swell, resembling tiny rosebuds.

In conclusion, Pilgrims were early English settlers, and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

Thank you.

My Ethnicity by Jennifer Louise Chicken

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jcethnic_header Social Studies
Mrs. Crunch
Unit 2: Diversity
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My Ethnicity
By Jennifer Louise Chicken

Everyone knows that my name is Jennifer Louise Chicken. It’s a household name, but what does it mean? Where did it come from?

Fact: everyone has a race plus an ethnicity. For example, I am white. The scientific term for me is “Caucasian.” But what is my ethnicity? Read on to find out.

My ethnicity is “Danish.” My great, great grandfather, Axel Chicken, was a well-known Danish pioneer. He came from Denmark, which is in Europe. I have seen a picture of him and he was really hot. His name was actually Axel Kreukken, but he changed it to Axel Chicken because wanted to make a new life in this country with liberty and justice for all. Axel had a wife named Adelgunde. Obviously, that is a horrible name but she was gorgeous. When they came to the USA they pioneered all the way to Indiana. When they got there they were very outgoing and they quickly realized that they were the most popular adults in town even though they didn’t speak a word of English.

Next they had to find a job. Since Axel and Adelgunde had changed their last name from Kreukken to Chicken, they decided to raise chickens and sell them and their eggs in order to make it in this country. After a lot of hard work, it turns out that they made it.

The Danish culture is a very beautiful heritage. The food is excellent but not fattening. In the olden days, Adelgunde had a special dish that she used to make called Chicken Kreukken. It is made out of shredded chicken mixed with cheese and baked in the oven for a very long time. Adelgunde handed the recipe down through the generations and now my mother Sandra makes it at home (even though she is half Yugoslavian and three quarters Canadian). My mother Sandra also serves us lots of fresh fruit so that we can stay slim.

Furthermore, the gown that I wore for my christening is the exact same gown that was worn by Axel and Adelgunde’s two daughters, Weena and Walentine, and by their four sons, Gillis, Gregers, Ulf and Bobsled. Adelgunde stitched it herself and it has a TON of lace on it. I cried a little bit at my christening and everyone thought it was so cute. A photographer came and we have gorgeous pictures of this event framed in our house.

My brother Rick frequently drives me to school in his convertible. Rick will take this convertible with him when he goes to college, but my parents will buy me my own convertible when I turn 16 (in two years). This is because the Danish ethnicity believes in rewarding hard work and I am on the honor roll in addition to homecoming court and various local pageants.

Therefore, every year on my birthday my grandparents give me a golden charm for my charm bracelet, which I only wear on special occasions. This year, it was in the shape of Denmark so that it can remind me of my ethnicity. Last year, it was in the shape of a chicken, to symbolize our last name.

Here is how to say some things in Danish: “Goddag” means “hello” and “populaer” means “popular.”

Here are some other things from Denmark: The Nordic Track, Vikings, LEGOs, Hamlet, The Little Mermaid, Cheese, Beowulf, Brigitte Nielsen and Thumbelina. So as you can see, lots of important things are Danish.

In conclusion, it is very wrong to discriminate on people’s ethnicity. There are lots of great ethnicities like Danish, Swedish, French and Hispanic, so everyone needs to have a multicultural attitude and celebrate diversity on this earth. That is why I am very proud of my ethnicity, which is “Danish.”

Donna McDonald’s Diary Entry #4: Sex Education

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Dear Diary,

I have a confession to make. I think I’m pregnant. Mrs. Vulvia the gym teacher came into our spanish class to teach us about sex and STD’s. She pulled out a green banana which she called a plantain. Mr. Maneuver yelled “Ay dios mio! Un plantano!” Buck tight Jimmy jumped up and did a salsa move. She said that sex can cause a lot of diseases and we shouldn’t have sex (because Jesus doesn’t like it) but if we do we have to use a condon. A condon is made of wet balloon that you put on a banana. I got uncomfortable and yelled “Blue Robin eats condon!” then she told us about all the STD’s we can get from SEX. There’s one called crabs where crabs crawl on your frontbutt and are itchy! GROSS! I chimed in, “Penny Cockis has crabs on her peehole!” Mr. Maneuver started to yell something to me but I fell asleep. When I woke up we were learning about gentle warts. Mr. Maneuver said they’re “malo.” Then Mrs. Vulvia told us about pregnancy and how it starts from kissing. That’s when I realized I have a problem. Remember when I practiced frenching on Brenda, my hamster? Well he licked right back and now when I puff out my stomach it looks like I have a bump. I’ve been extra hungry and going to the ice cream truck twice a day, and I went to the library and read “What to expect when you’re expecting.” Well, I didn’t read it but I saw it on the shelf. I also found a bug in my room which I think might have been from the crabs. I really don’t know what to do. Should I tell my mom? Should I tell the dudettes? I haven’t even gotten my period yet. I really don’t know if I’m ready for a baby. I still have all of middle school ahead of me and I don’t want to have to think about changing diapers and baby clothes. I have a feeling that Lance is the father. I’m worried that if I tell him he’ll run away and I’ll have to raise the baby myself like Andrea from 90210. I feel so alone.
I really need your advise.

Love and kisses,
Donna

PS. I started a rumor that Dana Dripsky frenched Danny Mugg and now they’re pregnant with twins.

Blue Robin’s Journal Entry #2

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What’s doing, journal?

Today was quite a doozy. For starters, Lance McGirk asked Donna McDonald to the Holiday Hop in the hallway, just before the first bell. She was so absolutely worked up about it that she promptly started a rumor that the reason I call myself Blue Robin is because I secretly wish my eyes were blue. Well, that’s not true. I happen to like my own eyes, which are hazel flecked with a nice, cheerful gold, thank you very much! Sometimes I even wear a marigold-hued baseball cap just to enhance my golden flecks, so eat my shorts, Ms. McDonald!

Then Mr. Maneuver gave us a pop quiz in Spanish, and everyone groaned. I think I made a B, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a B+. (I hope I didn’t make an F.) Then Chad Loaf rocketed right out of his seat and asked Millie Miller to the Hop right in front of the entire class, including Mr. Maneuver. Maneuver was pretty peeved because this was all on class time, and it’s pretty hard to teach a bunch of teens to habla Espagnol while they’re asking each other to the Hop left and right.

Then the bell rang, ripping Donna McDonald from her slumber (she slept through the entire class, as usual). She was so startled that she immediately started a rumor that reason I’m editor of The West Swedshon Wasp (our yearbook) is because I’m gay (sexually). Personally, I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other. Yes, I’m the editor of the Wasp, because I love a challenge and I’ve got school spirit by the boatload. It has nothing to do with my being a lesbian, and I told her so. Then she said the fact that I wear sneakers “proves” that I’m a “gay-lord,” but that’s a load of bull crap. The fact is that there’s nothing like stepping into a new pair of sneaks and doing some good old calisthenics just to get the juices flowing, so cut me some slack! It’s not like I go around asking girls on dates. Literally, I have never once asked a girl on a date. And anyhow, I’m just a teen. How could I already be gay? I’m still going through puberty. I haven’t even gotten my period yet, for cripes sake! And that’s exactly what I told her!

Then Millie Miller informed me that my outfit was really “low-rent.” Then I went to lunch. In a wacky turn of events, Buck Tight Jimmy asked Deb to the Hop – right there in front of everyone in the cafeteria! I wasn’t sitting with her, because the last time I tried that Deb told me to “take a hike” and Jennifer Chicken laughed rudely. But I saw the whole fiasco from afar. That’s when Jennifer Chicken practically choked on one of her chicken tenders. She turned as red as marinara sauce and she looked like she was going to blow a fuse, like a volcano. Then she told everyone they’d be sorry and stomped out of there like a bat out of hell. You could practically see the lava shooting out of her volcano head. I heard that the reason she was mad was because Buck Tight Jimmy said that the Hot and Steamy Timmy Bones already has a date to the Hop….some “mystery girl.” Take that, Ms. Chicken! (Stay tuned for further details on this matter.)

Later during clubs, Donna McDonald reared her fangs again when she stormed into the yearbook meeting and threatened to start a rumor that I have a huge “mons” unless I put her and the Dudettes on the COVER of the yearbook. I didn’t know “mons” meant, but I didn’t like the sound of it. I looked it up and it is short for “mons pubis,” which is Latin for “pubic mountain,” which means the mound of flesh above your privates! So basically, she plans to tell everyone that I have a huge mound of flesh above my privates! How do ya like that?! Donna McDonald is rude, crude, and lewd. The fact is that SHE is the one with a huge mons – I saw it in swim PE when we all had to wear our bathing suits. And that’s exactly what I told her. She said I was gay for noticing.

More on this later –

“Blue” Robin Tobin

Deb Does Grass: My Journey with Drugs by Deb Webster

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Dear Diary,
I have something to confess and it’s kind of major. I tried grass last summer (when i was but 13) in the trunk of my cousin Joan’s Plymouth. Okay, her car doesn’t really have a trunk, but I was in that open part in the back where you store stuff. No one was sitting in the back seat, but Joan is in high school and she said she didn’t want to be seen smoking ” weed grass” in the parking lot of the Java Dome with a middle schooler in her car. So she made me crouch like a tiger for around an hour so that no one would see me. Then she and Rick Chicken’s lab partner, Bruce Nani, smoked marijuana out of something that she kept calling “a sweet glass piece.” I asked if I could try some because I wanted to brag to Blue Robin about it later, but they laughed at me and Joan said, “Dream on, Deb Dorkster.” I used to hate it when people called me that. So I guess I didn’t technically try grass, but I sure as hell inhaled A LOT of second-hand smoke.

Then Joan and Bruce started laughing really hard at this upturned shopping cart for no reason, so I joined in in hopes that they’d see I, too, could be marginally popular one day (if only they could see me now!)* Joan suddenly stopped laughing and pulled off her sneaker and started smacking it against her forehead, which made Bruce laugh harder, so then I laughed harder too, at which point Joan flung open her car door, yanked open the trunk, pulled me out by my carcass and scrotum-shaped knapsack and told me to beat it.

“Beat it!” she roared. “You are such a dork! Why are you laughing? You didn’t even smoke any drugs!”

I rolled my eyes and tidied my dewy mop of russet-colored ringlets. “Um, maybe I’m laughing because I’m HIGH?! It’s called second-hand smoke, Joan. I’m stoned as hell!”

Joan looked at me like I was a pile of diarrhea. It was at this point that I knew I had a problem. Mom wouldn’t be happy to hear about it, so I knew that it had to be my secret. I was a drug addict. “I’m a drug addict,” I announced.
“Go home, Deb.” Joan commanded.

“Great,” I said (sarcastically). “First you hook me, then you ditch me. You said that if I did your laundry for a month that I could hang out with you today. Little did I know what I was in for! Real nice, Joan.” And with that, I flounced home.
That was one year ago today. There have been several occasions when I ate not one but two pieces of my mom’s rhubarb torte (lingering effects of the munchies), but for the most part, I’ve stayed clean. I’ve stayed strong. I haven’t gone near the stuff since then. Or Joan, for that matter.

Bruce told Rick Chicken that he fingered her under the bleachers. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m sure it involves drugs and I know that I should reach out and try to help her. She may be a mega-jerk, but she is family. And a Webster NEVER turns their back on a family member (unless popularity is at stake).
Keeping it real (as usual),
Deb

*I know that they’re not all that popular because Rick Chicken told Jennifer that he makes Bruce do all their work in their bio lab and that Joan was kind of a dork but because she “always has grass” he sometimes “invites her to parties.”

 

Mr. Maneuver Reflects On His Life Before Teaching

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¡Ay, Que lastima! My 8th Grade Spanish students have been trying the upper limits of my patience, particularly one rather taxing teenager–Deb Webster (she has been acting utterly disturbed as of late, emotional problems perhaps?). It’s days like these that I yearn to revisit a simpler time, a time ten years ago when I made my pilgrimage from the suburbs of Indiana to the dusty caminos of Laredo, Texas* (see note at end). In Laredo, I spent my daylight hours laying bricks for the new post office, watching my face transform from milky pudding to tanned leather, as if held under the sun’s spell–a blend of blazing kisses and some strange old alchemy. When noon reared her caliente cabeza high in the sky, I sat on the curb with mi hombres in arms, noshing on corn tortilla & fresh papaya with lime, listening as the sidewalk sang to the distant beat of a silent mariachi band.

At 5pm the foreman’s whistle blew and we’d exhale in unison, our muscles relaxing and brows unfurowing in tandem with the shrill cry of our daily savior. I’d gather up the hose and rinse away the thin patina of powdery clay coating my arms, a ruddy film which I imagined was Laredo’s way of sheathing me with second skin–protection from the brutal rays of el sol. Down to the local cantina, Rick’s, I scampered–damp with honest living, giddy with reprieve. Once firmly entrenched on my favorite bar stool (near the end, closest to the Lady PacMan game in case i felt so inclined), I’d alternate between sips of cool cerveza and warm Cuervo, the froth mingling with the tequila’s bite, tingling down the length of my entreating gullet. Upon becoming sufficiently borracho-ed, I would mosey on over to the juke and proceed to play LaBamba on repeat. Eventually, Rick would unplug the juke or one of the locals would threaten to ‘set my head straight.’ It was at this point i would decide to make my exit.

I’d allow my tongue to covetously rounded the rim of my foggy shot glass one last time, then I’d settle the tab and take to the dusky streets. I’d grab a greasey taco rife with indiscernible yet delectable meat.
“What’s up El Flaco Rubio?,” Ed the taco-vendor would say.
“Nada mucho, Ed,” I’d respond.
“Say, what’s your real name, El Flaco Rubio? Why you only let us call you El Flaco Rubio?”
“I’m building a mystery, Ed.”
“You okay in the head, El Flaco Rubio?”
“I will be, Ed.”

And with an eyeroll and a chuckle from the friendly cocinero, I would turn and amble on through the twilight, mouth full of succulent habañero and carne. While using my sleave to wipe the errant juices from my chin, I’d enter the warm-orange glow of my humble abode, welcomed by the tender sight of my dainty lover splayed out on our mattress, smoking and reading last week’s issue of TV Guide.

“Where’s my Scotch, you SOB?” she’d call. I’d hand the scotch to mi querida Abigail. Abigail Charles was the name of this gentle flor who I was lucky to call my own, to devour and be devoured by, if only for a brief time.

“And my lottery tickets. You shouldn’t have even come home if you forgot those, a*shole,” she uttered as she took a long drag of her Virginia Slim. Her voice was like velvet, velvet that had been put through a thresher and ripped to pieces, but still velvet nonetheless.

I gingerly placed the tickets in her pink palm, folding those delicate fingers around her new spoils, accidentally knocking off an acrylic nail.

“God*mmit, frigg’n retard,” she purred. “These are my expensive press-ons, sh*t on fire.”

No longer able to resist the promise of the bounty laying beneath her sensually tattered bathrobe, I eased on to our rumpled love nest, slowly nestling into her haunches, which were warm like oven-fresh pancitos. I rested my head, now throbbing from mucho libation and dehydration, on her terry-swaddled breast, to the left of a stain that i suspected to be related to the empty carton of boxed red wine on the nightstand.

“Move your head, I can’t see my shows.” She then put her cigarrete out on my pantleg, and I feel asleep despite the moderate stinging sensation, lulled by the opening credits of The Dukes of Hazzard.

Oh Abigail, hermosa Abigail. Ocasionaly I wonder what became of my mariposa. Have the years been cruel to her? I pray they have been kind. After a while, every fiber of my being ached to return to Swedshon Indiana and commence my Teaching-dream. I knew it was time to leave. I told her of my plans, offered her sanctuary in my arms, suggested we alight together to the midwest. With a heavy heart, she declined.

“Naw, I’ll probably just shack up with Rick.”
“You mean, Rick from Rick’s?” I asked.
“Yeah. I heard he’s hung like a horse.”

I could tell she was devastated. It pained me to leave her behind in such a bad way. But in the end, all I can say is that I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood (I think that’s from a song, no?).

I must get back to grading papers. I have only 20 minutes before my next class and would like to fit in some time to snack on some platanos and sip mango juice.

* I had my sights set on South America but, alas, ran out of dinero just before the Mexican border, although I tell people Laredo is located in South America because it makes me seem more legit as a self-professed, bonafide coniesseur of all things Hispanico.