‘Shaping U,’ as recited by Richard Schmitt Jr.
“Ms. Schloeman, can you just answer me just one question? … Why is it that I have to take P.E. every stinking year, because really … I want to know. I mean every year, it’s exactly the same, I’m forced to humiliate myself in front of the rest of the class. It’s not so bad for the kids who are athletes, but for the rest of us, like me, it’s not so easy. (Beat) Yes, Ms. Schloeman … I know, I know … P.E. is just as important as algebra and biology, and yes I agree that you should get a grade based on your abilities and skills. But everyone has to take the same class! They don’t have “Basic P.E.” like they have “General Science” or “Basic Math” … that would be a whole different subject completely! And why do we have to rotate activities all the time, why can’t we stick with one thing for awhile, that way I could redeem myself by getting better at something. Soccer and basketball aren’t so bad, but this body shouldn’t be on a balance beam during gymnastics. I just become entertainment for the rest of the class. Middle school is humiliating enough without coming five minutes after everyone else during the mile run … while they’re showered and going to lunch, I’m just crossing the finish line. I already know the theory around fitness … it-is-a-part-of-a-well-rounded-education. But the least they could do is level the playing field for everyone. I know there’s not much you can do for me, but thanks, for at least letting me get that off my chest … See you in the gym.
Molly’s Big Moment,’ as recited by Mollie Cummings
I can’t believe this day is here. How did I let this happen? I mean, me, in a speaking contest? Yes, I know what you’re thinking: if anybody can speak it’s me. Really, I get that. Ever since I learned to speak I have done it way too much, at least according to my parents,…and my teachers,…and my ex-boyfriend,…and most of my friends,…and my grandparents… Anyway, this is different. I can talk to anyone about anything, but not in front of everyone and certainly not being judged.
So how is it possible that I am next in the speaking contest? My mother. You have mothers, don’t you? My mother thought that this would be great for me. She started planning this years ago when we first started going to the Winter Carnival. We had a good time with the races and all the food. But when my mother saw the winner of the speaking contest get crowned Queen of the Winter Carnival, she decided then and there that one day her daughter (ME!) would wear the crown. And when my mother gets something in her head, nothing, not pleading or arguing or yelling or crying will change her mind. And I know since I tried them all. I finally gave up and here I am…next.
I have been practicing a lot. My coach has been almost as bad as my mother. “Memorize it, memorize it better, speak up, slow down, move while you speak, don’t move so much, smile but not too much, and my all-time favorite: E-N-U-N-C-I-A-T-E! If I hear that word one more time I’ am going to “enunciate” a few words that are not part of my speech.
Anyway, I am next and I don’t even want to see the audience. Oh no, I just looked. There are all my classmates, or should I say the ones that are smarter than me. And I know they are smarter because they’re sitting there watching while I am up here sweating. My knees are so wobbly I probably won’t be able to walk out there. And really, I think I am going to be sick. My stomach is doing flip-flops. Hey do you think that if I did get sick that I could get out of this? Probably not. My coach would just want me to smile while I did it and my mother would expect me to win since I was so realistic.
Oh, and there is my mother. She looks so excited. Do you know what she said. She said that being “Queen of the Winter Carnival” would look good on my college transcripts – my college transcripts! I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen. I even Ti-Voed the show “Toddlers and Tiaras” for her hoping she would see the similarities. It didn’t work out quite how I thought. She thought all those mothers were terrible and reminded me how thankful I should be that I had such a reasonable mother. Yeah, I am really thankful right about now.
Oh no, Adriana is almost done. It’s almost my turn. Adriana didn’t miss a word. She smiled so naturally. She moved as she spoke. She E-N-U-N-C-I-A-T-E-D! I have no chance of winning this thing. And that’s okay since I never wanted to do it in the first place.
Oh, my land, Adriana just burped – loudly! I can’t believe it! And it wasn’t part of her monologue, unless you think burping is part of her “Romeo and Juliet” piece. What now? She froze. She isn’t moving. She’s just standing there like a zombie. Someone needs to help her. Oh, there is her coach and Mrs. Belanger. They’re trying to lead her off stage. What is she saying? “Romeo, where fore art thou?” She’s blubbering it over and over again.
This is terrible, for her. Actually, it’s pretty good for me. Everyone thought she would win – including me. Maybe I have a chance. Maybe I can win this thing. I mean, I certainly can do better than that. I can almost feel that crown on my head. I will look so amazing. I can’t wait to post pictures of me wearing it on Facebook. I think I’ll send picture cards out announcing the new Queen of Woodland! This is going to be so great.
It’s my turn. Let me out there. Watch out, Woodland, your Queen is taking center stage. I have been waiting for this moment for years!
(Trips and falls down).
‘How Swede It Is,’ written by Alana Margeson and recited by Gunnar Bondeson
“Valkommen. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Gunnar Bondeson, seventh generation Swede. I hail from a line of Bondesons, Borjesons, Carlsons and Pearsons. For those of us blessed enough to be Swedish, our heritage speaks for itself: Ingrid Bergman, best known for her role in a little-known film titled Casablanca; ABBA, the Swedish pop group that just happens to be the fourth best-selling group in the history of recorded music; Knut, a thirty-something competitive eater who can eat his own weight in Goteborg cheese and, of course, Mr. Dave Sterris, a celebrated Swede and Woodchuck. That’s right. He has dual citizenship.
If you think my name, Gunnar, is unusual, it’s not – in downtown Stockholm at least. (Just ask my Dad, Sven, or my cousin, Finn, they’ll tell you). Another Swedish cousin of mine, named John Stodig, or “The Alcatraz Eel,” spent time in the famous island prison for counterfeiting. Apparently, it’s great to make money – but not OK to “make” money (gesture as if folding some bills). The moral of the story? Crime doesn’t pay, but Papa says that farming doesn’t either.
Being Swedish builds character. In order to be Swedish, you must have broad shoulders, for many reasons. One is that you are genetically predisposed to broad shoulders. This is helpful when filling out our Swedish dancing apparel. We begin practicing our public dancing in elementary school, traditionally during St. Lucia, or the Scandinavian Festival of Light, when we must be Pepparkokker Gubers. This consists of wearing brown or red tunics, hats and tights, handing out gingersnap-like cookies and dancing around a Christmas tree. This experience broadens our shoulders for the ultimate in Swedish dancing at Midsommar. At Midsommar, we dress up in knickers and vests, sing songs in Swedish and dance around a maypole. This takes a special kind of skill and maturity. Maroon 5 may have moves like Jagger, but I have moves like Johannsen.
Being Swedish, culture, loyalty, tradition and family are all central to our heritage. Ironically, these are also ideas celebrated by the Italian mafia. However, Swedes do not practice organized crime. We practice unorganized crime. For example, when the dishes of pickled herring are not in prefect rows on the buffet table – that’s a Swedish unorganized crime.
Speaking of Swedish food, we don’t mess around. We like our milk soured, our eels jellied and our fish pickled. Think you have what it takes to be Swedish? Consider the recipe for a dish called Phllibonk. The directions state: Rub the bottom of casserole with sour cream. Pour fresh, unpasteurized milk into dish and let stand at room temperature until thick and sour, about 36 hours. Place in refrigerator eight hours. Just before serving, beat equal amounts of sweet and sour cream until gravy consistency. Pour on top of soured milk and sprinkle with sugar and ginger. That’s right – we’re so good we can put sugar and spice on top of curdled milk and make it taste goooood.
I’m proud to be Swedish. Maybe Swedes don’t have our own reality TV show yet, but look for Baltic Shore, sure to come out soon. I’ve even got someone in mind to be the Swedish Pauly D…his name? Gunnar B. (put on glasses). You like…Ja?” (fist pump)
‘That’s My Dad,’ as recited by Desirae Belanger
“I guess I must have been about eight. I couldn’t have been much younger. It was the first time my Dad took me to a real Major League ballgame. I guess I must have eaten one too many hot dogs or too many nachos, because I suddenly really had to go to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure my Dad would let me go by myself, but we were within one run of tying the game and he didn’t want to miss anything. I was thrilled. When you’re eight, finding the men’s room by yourself is a real grown-up adventure. Even the word “MEN’S room” was exciting. But I think deep down I was a little hurt that he wasn’t more worried about me. I mean, who knows what kind of weirdos might have been in that men’s room?
Anyway, there weren’t any weirdos. But when I got back to my seat, this GUY was in it. This total stranger was in my seat, and he was talking to my Dad. And my Dad had his arm around the guy’s shoulder- not in a weird way, but you know, like guys bonding. And they were laughing. My dad used to put his arm around my shoulders like that! The men’s room was up a level from our seats, so I saw them before they saw me. And all I could think was, why is he talking to that guy? That’s my seat! That’s my DAD!
I couldn’t move. I just stood there in the middle of the stadium frozen. I thought I’d been replaced. I wanted to scream, “No, Dad! I’ll be a better son! Whatever it takes, I’ll do it! Dad!” But I couldn’t. I just stood there. I guess I was crying.
This guy in a blue shirt came up and tried to find out what was wrong, but I couldn’t tell him. How could I tell him I was dumped by my DAD? So he kind of pried open my fingers, where I was holding my ticket, and saw where my seat was. He sort of pushed me along and we got down to my seat.
When we got there the guy stood up to let me sit down, and I saw who it was. “Hey, look who’s here,” my Dad said. “It’s Mr. Allen! What do you know – he’s a huge baseball fan just like you!”
Mr. Allen was my gym teacher. I’ve hated gym class ever since.”
‘Scary Movie Blond,’ as recited by Adriana Bither
OK. So you know the dumb blonde in the horror movies that you’re always screaming things at? Like – don’t go in there! What are you doing? Are you out of your mind? Oh, come on! Who goes out in the dark when they hear a noise? No one!
Well, that’s me. The dumb blonde. I didn’t think it was. Really. I’ve yelled at the same stupid people you have and then – last night – it happened! I turned into one of those brain-dead, “hello? Is-someone-there?” people! I didn’t even realize it at first.
See, I got home from practice last night and the house was totally dark. Not a car in the driveway. No big deal, Mom and Dad often come home after me. They’re both classic workaholics. I wave my friend’s mother on so that she won’t have to wait for me to dig through my bag and find my key.
Then I get to the door – open. Not just unlocked, but part of the way open! Now here’s where the scary music should’ve started – you know, clued me in that maybe something was wrong. But did it? No. Complete and utter silence.
So what do I do? Yell. Of course, because that’s what every idiot blonde does. “Hello? Anyone there?” Like all axe murderers are polite enough to answer back when you yell for them.
No answer. Duh. So that means it’s safe, right? Cause no one answered, I hurry up and go in and lock the door behind me because I want to make sure that I lock myself in with the psycho killer, right? I mean, that’s what the dumb screaming blonde always does.
I turn on every light in the house as I go through it – searching every closet and hiding spot I know of. Well, except the basement – it’s dark and scary down there and I’m not that blonde. And it makes perfect sense that no axe murderer would possibly want to hide down there, right?!
I’m on the last round through the house when there is a huge crash outside. So what do I do? Run to the door, open it, and yell, “Hello? Is someone out there?” I rush outside. But don’t worry – I leave the door wide open so that I can run back in! Yes, yet another stupid blonde move! But thank goodness I got back in safe and sound, no axe murderer lying in wait! Luckily my parents showed up a few hours later – their daughter all in one piece and not hacked up and scattered around the house!
Tomorrow, I’m dying my hair red!
‘Camping,’ as recited by Joshua McCormack
“Ahhh … the great outdoors, I love camping …
Well I love the thought of camping.
Problem with camping is leaving the comforts of home.
Like soft beds, heated rooms, light switches and flush toilets.
But we seem to crave getting away to the wilderness.
It’s cheap, restful and exciting at the same time.
I hate the packing most of all.
You don’t want to leave the comforts of home really.
So you try and pack as much of it as you can.
These days they sell all kinds of stuff to make camping comfortable.
Portable toilets, showers, stoves, fridges, beds, televisions, fold-up dining room tables, screened dining rooms.
By the time you buy all these devices you need to buy another vehicle to pack them all in.
That is unless you go for the RV.
Problem with RV’s is you can’t go camping in lots of places cuz they’re so darn big.
So you end up camping in Walmart’s parking lot.
For the rest of the campsite crowd tents and pop-ups are the way to go.
But the camping is so dirty, buggy and uncomfortable.
When you arrive the bugs are all rubbing their little tentacle hands in excitement just waiting for you to get out of the car.
You see, their short little lives have been leading up to this.
They’ve all been training on a bunch of tuff skinned wild animals.
Now you and your friends pull up like choice cuts of tenderloin.
And these bugs are different than city bugs.
Unlike the syringe needle poking mosquitoes, these country bugs are carnivores.
Horse flies and black flies with teeth that bite chunks out of you.
They don’t want your blood, they want steak.
You all start getting out of the car, to bask in the beautiful hot sun.
While they’re all lining up for the all-you-can-eat outdoor barbeque.
We’ve come all this way to get away from the pollution and noise of the city.
We want some healthy fresh air for a change.
So what’s the first thing we do when we arrive?
Cover ourselves with liquid poison trying to be less appetizing to the local insect population.
Then we add a layer of chemical sunscreen to complete the human biohazard cocktail.
Cooking in the dirt is always a treat, too, hey?
All those bugs flying over checking out the smell.
They can’t resist getting a closer look and that’s when it happens.
We don’t see it, but I know it’s happening.
Those Curious George no-see-em’s fall in and end up part of the meal.
No big deal it’s just part of the circle of life. We eat the bugs, they eat us.
Eating bugs isn’t so bad; it’s a cultural no-no in this country.
Heck, when I was in Thailand eating bugs was hot stuff.
Here we have hotdog stands on street corners.
Well in Thailand they have the same carts preparing bugs
And people lining up for their little take-away bag of crunchy critters.
Anyway camping has many adventures.
