Do You Smell That? Comedy Open Mic Round 19

It’s the first day of class and we are all a tad bit nervous. Some show it more than others. Some physically tremble while others sweat profusely. I, on the other hand, am beeming with confidence on the outside, while pushing back the taradactles fluttering in my stomach on the inside. My co-teacher and I are walking to our first class from lunch. This is the first time either of us has taught a real class and we are pretending to not be anxious better than anyone else in our group.

A huge part of me wants to take off like a gazelle from a lion but the bossier voice in my head won’t let me do that. I try to contain the vomit that is rising in my throat by drowning it in gulps of green kale smoothie. Oh how I want this class to be over already.

As my partner and I are in the middle of playing who is less nervous, I surf on what I had hoped to be mud. Looking down, I knew it wasn’t going to be good for it was the middle of June and not a drop of rain water was in sight. It was bad, it was really bad, poop covered nearly my entire shoe. Had I been wearing something with a little less tread on the bottoms maybe I could have been able to wash them off but this poop was stuffed in every nook and cranny of the bottom of my shoe. My partner and I laughed to refrain from crying.

We ran to the nearest grassy area thinking I could wipe the poop off there. What I wasn’t expecting was for the grass to be bone dry, so much so, that I was now just mixing dry grass with the stubborn poop. As I approached the nearest building to find the closest bathroom I look down to notice grass and straw sticking out from the bottom of my foot. This is getting worse by the minute. Not only can you smell me coming but now you can see me coming with my freshly be-fuzzied kicks. At this point my partner is suggesting I stick my foot in the toilet and let the flusher do the work for me. I couldn’t wrap my head around that one, so I take to the bathroom sink instead. Trying ever so carefully not to get poop water on my hands, I realize it’s no use. The poop and now grass, has permeated every crevice of my unfortunate shoe and now I must debate teaching my very first class in my socks; ankle socks, mismatched ankle socks.....

I pop into one of the stalls to put on my professional teaching shirt and am struck with the reality of my predicament. Laughter soon follows the dread that is building up inside. My partner waits patiently for her co-teacher to rejoin her. We walk casually across the street to the building in which we will be teaching. As I push open the door that clearly says pull, I know I am going to be a disaster in there. A class member peeks his head around a pillar and asks us if we are ready. We pretend we are in a serious conversation about our lesson plan so he will go away. There is one last ditch effort to remove the poo from my sole and I’m not proud of it........ Upon my partners suggestion I pirouette spin on the welcome rug to the building. A gleam of hope, the poop is crusting off. I know this is a disgusting thing to do and of course I do not want an unsuspecting student to then transfer poop from the carpet to their shoe but the thought of being known as the teacher who smells like dog poop has hijacked my morals and now my dignity.

Our class mate then relentlessly comes around the corner to see what we are up to. I quickly ask him if he’s been sitting in here long and followed that with a “have the sprinklers on the grass there been on since you’ve been here?” Now he thinks we are taking our class outside for an activity. I hesitate for his answer then continue outside to see if the grass is wet.

I mean, I don’t think the grass could have, been , any dryer. Not a drop of moisture was gracing this lawn full of hay. I had learned my lesson from 30 minutes ago; I kept the wiping to a minimum.

Full of defeat I walk back into the building where our eager class mate is waiting to ask why I am so concerned with the grass. The first class I will ever teach begins in five minutes and I’m runnning out of ideas. I quickly waft my foot near my classmates seated face to see if he smells anything. None the wiser, again, he is so very confused about what’s going on. As my partner begins to laugh, I proceed with a secondary wafting. Now, I am laughing. Unable to contain myself, I ask if he can smell anything.

We all start laughing at the knowledge of my newly acquired pheromones. Getting serious, I scope out a perfect place to hide my poop shoes while I teach class. Rolling up the shoes in bathroom paper towels, I place the turd covered converse under the stairs in the stairwell. As I awkwardly say hello to a student, my partner busts open the door to tell me she found another pair of shoes in her bag. I quickly squeeze my feet in the size smaller vans and head to class.

Although, I no longer smell like poop the residual stench hinders my confidence and contaminates the first five minutes of my lesson. Then I remember, I am not teaching middle schoolers who are not quite kids and definitely not adults but are these weird alien type, puberty stricken, hitleresk, hyper judgey teenagers. I am teaching young college age adults. For the time being that thought made me feel better, until I had to retrieve my shoes and slide back into Cinderella’s poop slippers again, that is.

I walked to my car Hansel and Gretel style, leaving a trail of poop prints behind me. The walk of shame could not have been more accurate. As I pull up to my house, I hop out of the car bare foot. My husband waits in front of the door to greet me with a *!^t eating grin and hug. He laughs as he so charmingly dubs me “Poopy”. And to think I was worried about my students.

Nomination for next weeks contest: @dandays and @carklevicci looking forward to the laughs guys!