Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

The children won't rest. They are stiffly sniffling with pimply rippling nostrils dripping forever upon their particle board tabletops littered with deceptive literature concerning the education of the complacent. The media addled brain of baby faced child slowly fills with chains. Little Jimmy is spinning a book entitled "Crystallography for the Tiny Child of Wonder" upon his drool draped finger. "Hey King of Jesus!" Mr. CruiseMan screams with spittle flung across his Jeering Lobe. "Quit your spin cycle or I WILL show you spin cycle. ALL OVER YOUR FACE!!!!" Yes, Mr. CruiseMan has been teaching his decrepit lesson plan for so long he sees it as a towering monolith of child sobriety. A harbinger of bloody discipline: it is the destructor of meandering adolescent paths. Shoot straight. Shoot it up real straight. Like some sort of schizophrenic heron flying out of the moonlight Mr. CruiseMan swoops down on these cowering shit for brainz and preens their minds of rebellion and safety blankets. He's ever-present; reminiscent of each student's recurring nightmare. Not only do the youth of the nation cower in this smothered atmosphere, so does the lone No. 2 pencil. Due to stifled creativity, each of these yellow sticks of graphite are subject to the jaws of every boy and girl. Chewed to oblivion as these young men and women so often are in the grasp of Mr. CruiseMan. Every twitch of budding limb, every undesired, semi-adult thought squelched in the effort to never join this world of zombies: they all spell the doom of a childhood that will be restrained while it exists. Mr. CruiseMan takes this fact as a rite of education. Let them be absolved of ignorance. For, after all, tis bliss.