I love my son. He is a talented, funny, handsome, and he’s an outstanding student. Now, he doesn’t get straight A’s, and they know his name in the In-School Suspension office, but damn it he’s a good kid. But some incompetent, pathetic “teacher” of his who reduced my son, my son, to a letter grade gave him a C in his AP Human Geography course. A C.
Since Mr. Joe Dickerson is such a dignified sage in geography, he probably has been to most obvious summer destination spots. I’ve generously compiled a thoughtful list of places that I think smartpants Dickerson should try out this season:
Now I’m sure Mr. Dickerson is VERY excited to enjoy a scholarly vacation now that he’s finished butchering my son’s report card. Balmy and raw, Somalia’s capital city of Mogadishu hasn’t yet fallen to first world influence, and if anyone could appreciate the flavor of a dangerous, crumbling city that hasn’t yet succumbed to global tourism, it would be the culturally wisened Joe Dickerson. Why the man wouldn’t let my son do make up the test that he slept through is beyond me, but he should consider spending his summer dodging armed carjackings and witnessing sword fights on the tumultuous horn of Africa to understand the importance of compassion. Plus! What snot-groined high school humanities teacher wouldn’t just love the chance to chew the fat with an actual lawless pirate?
A dark metal box behind a combination Taco Bell/Long John Silver’s baking in ozone microwaves would make an apt summer retreat for Mr. Dickerson. There maybe he can write some real god damn lesson plans or re-evaluate his extra credit policy as loosely-tied bags of fishy cud spill onto his grody head. Summer dumpster amenities include an olfactory bleach and rats nibbling at your dick.
Dickerson would just LOVE fucking Idaho. There’s nothing there but some coyotes collecting used condoms. From what I can tell by my son’s final grade, Dickerson seems to have a knack for doing nothing but sitting on his ass and watching fucking potatoes grow. This makes fucking Idaho a perfect vacation spot for a thoughtless drum of lard. There’s lots for Dickerson to enjoy out in fucking Idaho, including shitting outdoors or choking on pesticide.
The World’s Largest Toilet
As a concerned parent, I have always been able to fix my son’s lower grades with a few phone calls to teachers’ personal phones. But for some reason Dickerson deems his life’s work too damn dignified to fudge. Since my son is careening into depression now that he’s been reduced to average, I hope that Mr. Dickerson can enjoy giant turds and gallons of piss all summer long from the World’s Largest Toilet, which apparently is in crappy Columbus, Indiana, wherever the fuck that is. Dickerson can get an up-close view at jumbo sphincters as they shit huge shits on top of his lap.
Lost in the Suffocating Idea of His Own Insignificance
This isn’t a spot you’ll find on some expensive Rand McNally world map that hangs above a whiteboard. You don’t need a Visa and you can keep your precious American dollars. This is a spot within the bleak vacant corners of one’s own mind, and it’s the goddamn worst place. Dickerson probably thinks he’s wields so much power with his red pen and his tenure. Well I think it’s time he considers his role as a negligible mite of energy in an ever-expanding universe. What happens when he croaks? Where does his ass-scab consciousness go? And what of his trivial existence will last after he dies? When the human race falls? When our asshole planet is engulfed by a supernova? Stuck in the startling realization of his own insignificance is this summer’s dourest getaway.
Bound to a Gurney with His Favorite Porn Streaming In Front of His Face and Sharp Blades Whirring Just Over His Dick
His limbs strapped down, his head held still, his eyelids pulled way open. Since my son—my son—is now shackled to a pillaged GPA, it only seems fitting that Dickerson spends his summer constantly trying to resist getting a hardon, lest it gets massacred by whirring blades. I bet the loser hasn’t been laid in years, so sparing his manhood might be impossible when he repeatedly watches some leggy bimbo mount her field hockey coach. C is for Castrate, Dickerson.
Wherever Mr. Dickerson decides to spend his summer, I hope he enriched, enlightened, and sorry for what he’s done. Forget about the college credits my son was robbed of; my son (my SON!!!) will probably have to be an art major now. And you know who else pursued art? Adolf Hitler. Dickerson made a mess, and now the globby blood of my son’s future is on his hands. I hope you enjoy your trip to fucking hell, teach!