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TreSwank -> How To Disassemble A Fractured Mind (Music Class) (11/15/2006 2:11:16 PM)
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Linwood Elementary School was the local depository compound for Southmont North Carolina's fresh-faced young-un's......the dysgenic, racially-homogeneous progeny of the township's factory-workers, truck-drivers, and flea-market aficionado's There were probably about three black kids in our little school, and in perfect concurrence with the average rural Carolinian's assumptions about African Americans, they were all recipients of the "free lunch" program (which, of course, I coveted, thinking it was some prestigious honor). I'm guessing that you have a basic grasp of Linwood Elementary School's Causcasian-friendly ambience.
I'd have to say that the least desirable portion of my "brutal" elementary-school regimen, that consisted of macaroni-jewelry production, long-division bingo, and playground shit-talking was MUSIC APPRECIATION. Even though I was fortunate enough to pick up the electric guitar later in life, and become quite the accomplished shredder, it's a wonder that the emotional trauma of suffering through such a lame-ass course didn't scar me for life.
I can still remember the torturous chorus line of the shittiest song in creation.(You Can Grow Up to Be President)
You can grow up to be president,
Oh, you can grow up to be president,
Yes, you can grow up to be president,
Of the U...................S....................A!!!!
The song made me nauseous every time I heard it, and even more deleterious to my budding intellectual development, was the idea that making separate rows of students wave different-colored plates (red, white, and blue, of course) would be CUTE, FUN, or even REMOTELY productive.
First of all, none of my quasi-retarded, hillbilly, corn-fed peers had a shot at growing up to be manager of the hardware section at Sears, let alone President of the United States. Hell............half of their Billy-Ray-Cyrus lovin' parents couldn't spell "Commander-in-Chief", let alone raise a political icon. Something more realistic would have fit the bill with more accurate precision.
You can spend your life in a factory,
Consumed by self-loathing and apathy
Second of all........waving around a cherry-red paper plate over your head while singing about impratical political aspirations has a way of making you realize your teeny weeny stature in the face of universal shittiness.
It's no wonder I drink so much on my weekends.
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