"I'm going out to get a turkey," Mrs. Randle told her husband, who was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for his lunch. "Do you want me to get anything for you?"
"Cucumbers," said Mr. Randle. "You know I like cucumbers on my sandwiches."
"Okay," said Mrs. Randle, heading for the door.
"And don't forget to get gas. You know I hate it when you go off gallivanting and leave me with an empty tank!"
"Okay," said Mrs. Randle, putting her hand on the door knob. She was almost out the door when Mr. Randle called her back.
"You aren't going to any of those God-damned second hand stores are you?" Mrs. Randle was always buying so-called "treasures" at the second hand store. Like the chair she'd bought the previous month.
"What the hell did you want with a three-legged chair?!!" Mr. Randle had demanded after almost tripping over it in the middle of the night.
"Now why would I want to do that?" Mrs. Randle now asked, looking innocently at her husband.
"Just answer the question, damn it!" growled Mr. Randle.
"No I'm not going to the second hand store!" yelled Mrs. Randle, "are you satisfied?!"
Mr. Randle chuckled and kissed his wife goodbye. Mrs. Randle hurried out the door and into her car. If she hurried she would have time to stop at St. Vinny's, her favorite thrift store.
When Mrs. Randle arrived at St. Vinny's, it was 10 minutes to closing.
"Hello, Mrs. Randle," said the store clerk.
"Hi." Mrs. Randle quickly gravitated toward the woman's clothing. Digging through the discount bin, Mrs. Randle camee across a simply lovely pair of pink pants. They were her size and they were even made of her favorite fabric- polyester!
As Mrs. Randle approached the cash regester to pay for her pants, she noticed a beautiful yellow table. It was perfectly round and Mrs. Randle thought it would look great on her patio. She picked up the table and bought it.
Back at the car, Mrs. Randle put the table in the back seat. She decided she wouldn't mention her perchase to Mr. Randle just yet. In a few days he would have forgotten about his warning not to shop at the second hand store and she would be able to bring the table in.
From there Mrs. Randle headed to the grocery store.
At the store Mrs. Randle picked out a nice Thanksgiving turkey, some celery and some onions. She was halfway through the check-out before she remembered Mr. Randle's cucumber. Quickly she dashed back. She picked up two big yellow locally grown cucumbers because they were on sale and Mrs. Randle loved a bargain.
When Mrs. Randle returned home, Mr. Randle was still sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for his lunch.
"Did you put gas in the car?" asked Mr. Randle.
"Ooops!" said Mrs. Randle. "I forgot."
"Goddammit!" yelled Mr. Randle. Jumping up from the table, he grabbed the keys from her and headed out the door. He hadn't been gone two minutes when Mrs. Randle came to a frightening realization: Mr. Randle was going to see her table when he went to get gas!
"Oh no!" groaned Mrs. Randle, "I'm never going to hear the end of it now!" She pulled out some bread and butter and began to make an sandwich for her husband. She thought that maybe if she fed him as soon as he walked in the door, Mr. Randle wouldn't be so mad.
Mr. Randle returned as Mrs. Randle was cutting some slices of fresh cucumber for his sandwich. He was out of breath aand Mrs. Randle thought he looked mad. He stared at her for a moment while he caught his breath. Mrs. Randle braced herself for the fight.
"What," said Mr. Randle, "the hell is that round yellow thing?"
"You just mind your own Goddmaned buisiness!" Mrs. Randle slammed down the knife.
Mr. Randle looked at his wife with wide eyes. "I just wanted to know what I was eating!" he said, pointing at the big, round yellow cucumber.
Thirteen-year-old Verna looked up from her painting to see Mr. Young, her art teacher picking at the scabs on his head.
"Gross!" she thought. "He is so disgusting!" She turned back to her easel. She was painting a picture of a log covered with snow. In the snow she was painting all sorts of cool colour like purple and blue.
"Very interesting, Verna," said Mr. Young, coming up behind her. "Why don't you put some orange in your snow." He left and Verna scowled. There was no way she was going to out orange in her snow!
Verna continued to paint. Ten minutes later Mr. Young returned.
"I told you to put orange in your snow," he said. "When I come back there hada better be orange in that snow!" He left and Verna continued to paint, ignoring his request.
Another ten minutes massed and Mr. Young returned, paint brush in hand. Seeing that she had failde to do as he said, he dipped his paint brush in the orange paint and proceeded to paint a large streak of orange across her painting.
Verna turned to him angrily. "You ruined my painting!"
"I told you to put ornage in your snow." Verna dared not say anything more, as the strap was still being used at this time. Instead, she decided to put every colour in her painting. Red, yellow, green, even pink; Verna's anger was plastered all over the painting. She stood back, satisfied.
Do you want us to talk to this Mr. Young?" Verna's mother asked later that evening as Verna relayed the events of the day to her parents.
"No," said Verna. "That won't do any good."
"You just tell him," said her dad, "that the only time snow is yellow is when someone pisses in it!"
"Dad!" said Verna, suppressing a smile. "I can't say that!"
Unfortunately Mr. Young was a good friend of Mrs. Belamy, Verna's fat English teacher, and although things had cooled off somewhat in art class, it wasn't long before Verna found herself a victim of the "crazy teacher syndrome" again- this time in English class.
"Verna!" snapped Mrs. Belamy on Wednesday afternoon. "You did these spelling corrections all wrong!" Verna looked at her corrections. She had written the word and circled where she'd made the mistake, like she has been doing all year long.
"How do you want me to do them?" Verna asked.
"Well you should know by now!" exclaimed Mrs. Belamy. Verna felt close to tears. She didn't know what Mrs. Belamy wanted her to do and everybody was staring at her!
Her eyes narrowed at her. She would get revenge for this.
Weeks passed since the spelling, but Verna hadn't forgotten her vow of revenge.
The opportunity arose one day while Mrs. Belamy was writing on the chalk board. Verna noticed that whenever her teacher wrote, the flab under her arm jiggled. Verna giggled to herself. It struck her that this would be the perfect revenge!
"Psst!" she hissed to the girl nect to her. "When Mrs. Belamy writes on the chalkboard, the fat under her arm jiggles!"
Soon everybody in the class was watching intensly as Mrs. Belamy wrote, and every time she wrote, they would giggle.
Mrs. Belamy could not figure out that they were laughing at.
"All right division 18, what is the problem!?" she hollared in frustration. But they never told.
Verna sat back in her chair, smiling innocently at her teacher, who never suspecteed that it was her who had started this disruption. And there was nothing the poor teacher could do about it.