Just Don't Make Me Cry

My son Broosevelt is a clueless 8-year-old blondini whose hobbies include playing soccer and basketball, reading crap books like Captain Underpants, eating handfuls of Fruit Loops like his svelt father, throwing balls at plants, and getting owned by his twin sister, Boni.

My daughter Boni is a precocious, silky-haired, blue-eyed vixen whose hobbies include swimming fast, drawing in her sketch book while listening to Taylor Swift on the iPad, eating red peppers like most people eat apples, making out with her spoon at the dinner table, and owning her twin brother, Broosevelt.

The other day, Boni brought home some magnets from school. She claims a friend of hers named Mazzie gave them to her, but she has been circumspect regarding how exactly they came into her possession. For context, some of you may remember Boni's Post-it Note stealing spree...

The magnets are black, 1cm thick, donut-shaped, very strong, extremely loud, and super annoying. Kids love them. 

Boni played with them all night and left them on the couch or the kitchen counter or probably the floor cuz she has a tendency to leave her shit everywhere. The next morning before school, Broosevelt spotted the magnets, grabbed them, and took them to school because he has a tendency to make unwise decisions.

Broosevelt reports that he was playing with the magnets at his desk at 9:04am when some little bitch (my words, not his) named Kaaviya (KAH-vee-uh) asked to borrow them. Broosevelt proceeded to make another unwise decision, and said yes. Less than a minute later, Broosevelt saw Kaaviya go to the bathroom and thought to his poor little self, "Please don't break them."

In the bathroom, Kaaviya, she would later report, showed the magnets to Mira. Now, I don’t know this Mira girl but I can tell you with total certainty that she is also a little bitch. Why? Because she has zero dexterity and she dropped the fucking magnets and they broke.

Broosevelt reports that at 9:10am, Kaaviya returned to the classroom and appeared to be hiding something behind her back. Broosevelt asked if Kaaviya had broken the magnets, and Kaaviya said, "Kind of, but it wasn't me."

Kaaviya then handed the broken magnets to Broosevelt who, trembling with fear, thought, "Ohhhh my god. Boni is gonna be so mad at me!"

When school was over, Broosevelt and Boni started walking home, and he showed her the broken magnets.

Boni roared, "You broke them?!? I told you not to bring them to school and you didn't listen and now I'm super mad!" 

Broosevelt told Boni that Mira, not he, had broken the magnets, but his claims of innocence did not pacify her.

Boni: Give me two dollars, and we can forget this terrible incident ever occurred.

Broosevelt: How about $1?

Boni: $2.

Broosevelt: $1.

Boni: $2!

Broosevelt: $1!

And so on and so forth...

After they arrived home and negotiations had stalled, Broosevelt, in his infinite wisdom, made the following suggestion: "How about I give you $1 but you can also slap me in the face?"

Boni agreed.

So Broosevelt went upstairs to his room, grabbed $1 out of his tin lunch-box where he hoards his Jew gold, and came back downstairs.

He handed over the dollar to Boni and said, "Just don’t make me cry."

Personal Tragedy

When my dad died in 2016, I received lots of heartfelt condolences. Yesterday, when Federer announced his retirement, my phone blew up from morning to night with messages from friends and family.

"Saul, are you okay?"

"Saul, I'm so sorry."

"Saul, don't kill yourself."

"Saul, now you can kill yourself!"

To those of you who reached out, thank you for your compassion. To those of you who didn't, go fuck yourself.

Whoever you are, I want you to know one thing: I'm good.

When my dad died, I mourned his death, but mostly I celebrated his life. Yesterday, when Federer announced his retirement, I felt sad his career was ending, but mostly I celebrated his greatness. It is this greatness that allowed me to sleep peacefully last night.

Federer is a pure genius on the tennis court. He is a master of the game. He personifies tennis perfection.

Federer is the greatest of all of time.

The Greatest of All Time. 

The GOAT.

If you don't care about tennis, I suggest you stop reading now. If you do care, prepare for enlightenment.

Don't be confused by big numbers.

Nadal has 22 Grand Slams, Djokovic has 21, and Federer has 20. Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in one game, averaged over 50 points per game in the 1961-62 season, and claimed to have had sex with 20,000 women, but no one considers him the GOAT.

Why? Because being the most dominant in your era does not make you the GOAT. Every era has a dominant player, and thus the GOAT conversation demands that we look across eras, and thus that we speculate and discuss hypotheticals, which I will do shortly. But first a little tennis history.

In 2001, Goran Ivanisevic and Patrick Rafter, neither of whom knew much about hitting groundstrokes, played in the finals of Wimbledon. The very next year, in 2002, Lleyton Hewitt and David Nalbandian, neither of whom knew much about hitting volleys, played in the finals of Wimbledon. See what happened was that after the 2001 tournament ended, Wimbledon ripped up all of its courts and installed 100% ryegrass, which yields higher bounces and slows the game down. Before 2001, most players served and volleyed. Today, almost no one does, and man is it boring to watch.

Wimbledon wasn't the only tournament to slow down its courts. The US Open, the Australian Open, and pretty much every other hard court in the world slowed down their surface, once again advantaging baseliners and fucking serve-and-volleyers in the arse.

Even tennis balls themselves have become softer and slower. Remember those tennis balls from the 80s that turned into lacrosse balls after 10 minutes? Now after 10 minutes tennis balls turn into my Saturday morning oatmeal with peanut butter, strawberries, and honey: sloppy mush.

But more important than the courts and the balls is the string.

In 1997, Gustavo Kuerten became the first player to win a Grand Slam using polyester string. Within a few years, everyone was using poly. In case you don't know anything about anything, poly strings give players the ability to put an incredible amount of top spin on the ball and, essentially, hit any shot from anywhere. Picture Nadal or Djokovic or, for that matter, any of today's strong-legged scrubs 20 feet behind the baseline, deep in the corner, on the full run. Somehow, magically, they're still able to hit a winner. That shot did not exist 20 years ago.

In other words, slower surfaces, mushy balls, and poly strings have transformed tennis from a battle between serve-and-volleyers and baseliners (think Edberg v. Chang) to a battle between baseliners and baseliners (think every/any player on the tour today v. every/any player on the tour today). It is not an exaggeration to say that 97%, if not 99%, of professional players today play almost entirely from the baseline, and fuck it's so boring to watch.

Okay so why am I talking about all this and what does this have to do with my dad dying?

Well, nothing. But it has a shit load to do with Federer being the undisputed GOAT.

Federer is a natural serve-and-volleyer. He has a one-handed backhand and a beautiful backhand slice, and he has always loved attacking and coming to net. How did he make a name for himself in the juniors? Serve and volley. How did he beat Sampras in 2001 at Wimbledon? Serve and volley. How did he play for as long as possible until he and everyone else realized that playing that way simply couldn't win matches? Serve and volley. 

In other words, Federer had to adjust his own game to be successful in the era in which he played. He had to stay back more and come to net less. He had to engage in 20-ball ralleys with studs like Nadal and Djokovic when he obviously would have preferred to slice and dice, chip and charge, and serve and volley. That's how good Federer is: He won 20 Grand Slams despite today's courts, balls, and strings. 

Think about that for a second.

If your head didn't just explode, keep reading.

The opposite is true for Nadal and Djokovic, who were born and bred to be ultimate baseliners. Nadal woke up one day, had a delicious paella breakfast, and said to himself, "Hijo de puta! All I have to do is stay 10 feet behind the baseline, put huge amounts of topspin on the ball, and I can win basically every tournament I play in, even Wimbledon?? Vamos!!"

Djokovic woke up one day, masturbated into his Serbian flag, and said to himself, "Срање! All I have to do is become a human Gumbie, move side to side like fucking windshield wipers, and I can win basically every tournament I play in, even Wimbledon? Kill the Bosniaks!!"

To be clear, Nadal and Djokovic are extraordinary champions with not mushy balls. All I'm saying is that they have benefitted tremendously from this era because they can play the exact same way every day at every tournament on every surface. Like I said, don't be fooled by the big numbers.

But let's stay focused: This isn't a comparison of Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic. This is a comparison of all players across time and eras because that's what the GOAT question demands.

Wilt Chamberlain was the best of his era because he was 7'1 and 275 pounds. Everyone else was a foot shorter, 100 pounds lighter, and presumably lacking in penis length and girth. If you put Shaquille O'Neal in that era, he's every bit as great. But if you put Wilt in Shaq's era, he's a good player and maybe a great player but definitely not a 50 points per game player.

If Michael Jordan played in 2022, he'd score 50 every night. If Steph Curry played in 1982, he'd be injured within a week. If Pete Sampras played in 2022, he wouldn't be top 100 in the world. If Carlos Alcaraz (recent US Open champion) played in 1982, he would do really really well......on clay.

If Nadal played in 1982, he still would have won nearly every French Open he played. But that's about it. If Federer had played in 1982, not only would he have played (and, to be fair, lost to Nadal) in every French Open final, but he also would have won every other fucking tournament. The only player before this current era of tennis to dominate on all surfaces was Borg. Federer is Borg 2.0. 

Here's yet another example of what I'm talking about if you're not convinced because you're a total idiot:

Everyone agrees that Sampras was a better player than Agassi, but if Sampras and Agassi had played in today's era with today's courts, balls, and string, Agassi would have won more Grand Slams than Sampras, would have had a winning head-to-head, and would have never gone down the dangerous yet intriguing road of meth.

Time matters. Eras matter. The Greatest of an Era does not equal the Greatest of All Time. Don't be fooled by big numbers.

There is one word to describe Federer which no one uses to describe Nadal or Djokovic (or Sampras or Agassi or anyone else). This word, more than any other, demonstrates his genius. This word, all by itself, captures Federer's greatness.

Transcendent. 

Federer transcends his era. Federer transcends time.

Federer is the GOAT.

And because I have been lucky enough to witness his greatness from start to finish, I am not sad.

Though I do miss my dad sometimes. Love you, dad.

Give Up

My eldest, Panini, is a lost cause. A few months ago, she got her first official boyfriend, some kid with lots of hair theoretically named Mario. The first time Mario came over, I told Panini to make sure he took his shoes off when he came in the house. She claims she told him to, but all I know is that Mario walked right through my front door, kept his stupid-ass Nikes on, barely said hi, and went straight to the basement, where he proceeded to get stains on the carpet and attempt, perhaps successfully, to kiss my daughter. That night, I dreamt of Mario's death.

Mario came over another time and Panini was so absurdly embarrassed about him interacting with anyone in the family that, when he left, she walked him out the basement door and around the side of the house. Turns out that neither Panini nor Mario has any manners.

After her father allegedly threatened to murder Mario, Panini broke up with him and, in less than a week, got herself a new boyfriend, a nice Jewish boy theoretically named Joshua who deferentially looked me in the eye when he shook my hand and said hello. Turns out, however, that Joshua will fail in life because Panini straight beat his ass in H-O-R-S-E. Don't get me wrong; Panini can shoot. But if I were an 8th grade boy and some girl beat me in H-O-R-S-E, I'd end it all right then and there.

Seriously, Joshua. I grew up with two older brothers, and if my 8th grade girlfriend came over and beat me in any athletic competition whatsoever, I literally would not have gone back in the house that night, or ever. I probably would've stayed at a friend's for a night or two and then started walking the dangerous Denver streets and eventually escaped into the Rocky Mountains to find a nice cliff.

Suicide sucks and I'd never suggest it to anyone, but at this point in our lives and, for that matter, the history of the world, I can't and won't encourage anyone to try harder or fight for what's right or struggle for a cause or some clichéd bullshit like that.

My advice is simple: Give up.

Feeling sad or angry about the end of Roe v Wade? Considering signing a change.org petition or calling your local representative? Don't bother. The court is stacked, these legitimately insane judges are going nowhere, and the Democrats are gonna do fuck-all about it. Just don't get pregnant and maybe even stop having sex.

Still trying to find the right job since COVID turned the one you had to shit? Maybe even thinking about switching industries to find some inspiration and purpose? I got a better idea: Retire.

Still trying to lose the weight you gained after turning 40? Stop looking in the mirror.

I've definitely given up on the Boss. She's frustrated with her job, unhappy with the kids' school, annoyed by all the broken shit in our house, no longer entertained by my sense of humor, and generally done being a parent. The other day, she went off on Panini for being a lazy slob and, in a dramatic climax, threw a filthy, half-open Tupperware at Panini's feet which she'd left in her backpack for almost three days. It's no longer a matter of trying to make the Boss happy; I'm just trying to stay out of her way and fart in a different room. Sometimes late at night when I can't watch any more Better Call Saul, I lie on my couch in total darkness and think about how I could put the Boss out of her misery and safely bury her in the backyard because the rats burrowing under our house would slowly decompose her body.

I've given up on OG being cool. OG yells at her parents when they have more than one drink, berates her friends when they curse, and cries on her loveys when, after three fucking hours, we don't allow her to keep working on her school project. Panini is a wanna-be Molly Ringwald from Breakfast Club and OG can't help but be Anthony Michael Hall.

Speaking of Breakfast Club, if only Broosevelt had one ounce, just one tiny sliver of Emilio Estevez in him. Just one little muscle somewhere in his pea-sized body. Just one modicum of athleticism somewhere in his claw-like fingers. Dude loves to play on our indoor hoop and I've tried to teach him how to shoot a real jump-shot, catch a ball, and swing a bat, but my little man just ain't no good, so he ends up on the carpet with his Legos and Harry Potter. Broosevelt, I hereby officially give up on you and our entire relationship. 

I've for sure given up on my teaching career. My students wore masks through the very end of the school year and never took their stupid fucking heads out of their stupid fucking devices. I pass them in the halls and say hi, but really I'm thinking awful, vicious things. On the very last day of school, about an hour before grades were due, this kid G chats me: "Hey Mr. [Saul] I just saw my final grade is an 88 I know it's a long shot but if at all possible could u round it up for me?"

I responded, "Fuck you, your lack of capitalization and punctuation, and your entire life. GIVE UP."

Perhaps you're thinking that I forgot to mention my youngest daughter, Boni. I didn't forget; I gave up on her years ago.

P.S. Hey, Joshua: Panini is currently away at sleep-over camp and probably cheating on you, so I take back what I said before about not killing yourself.

Avocados & Reparations

Please email Saul at saulsfamous@gmail.com if you would like access to this post.

As the great Dave Chappelle said, "It's hard to entertain a country whose ears are so brittle. Motherfuckers are so sensitive."

Daddy, I Had a Bad Dream

It's 5am and I'm sleeping like a champion, and this little 7-year-old Boni who claims to be my daughter is standing by my bed, and I sense her whimpering so I half open my eyes, and she's like, "Daddy, I had a bad dream."

And I'm like, "I don't care. I really don't care. You're alive, right? And nothing actually happened, right? Did you piss your bed? Are you physically injured? No? Then get your ass back to bed cuz the odds of you having another bad dream at this point are low and even if you did have another bad one right now, you'd still be fine cuz dreams aren't real and, more importantly, why do you need to wake me up to tell me you had a bad dream? I don't need to know you had a bad dream and I sure as hell don't need to be woken up to be informed that you had a bad dream cuz there is absolutely nothing I can do for you right now except offer you completely disingenuous sympathy, and you know it's disingenuous so I'm not sure why you even came to me in the first place. Don't see your mother right there??"

So she goes back to bed and falls asleep in two seconds and now I'm stuck in bed, wide awake, trying desperately to fall back asleep before my alarm goes off, and I realize that she may have just had a bad dream, but I just had a nightmare about my entire fucking life.

I had a nightmare that Putin is about to invade Ukraine, and that there is nothing the world will do about it.

I had a nightmare that January in Chicago was fucking freezing. It dropped below 10 degrees for two weeks straight, it snowed non-stop, I shoveled seven times in three days, and my neighbors complained about dog-unfriendly salt on the sidewalks. 

I had a nightmare that, in the middle of this Arctic freeze, my wife abandoned her husband and children. She flew off to Florida for five days, drank beer, ate fish tacos, and sunbathed on the beach while my screaming kids and I played 37 rounds of B.S. and feasted on left-over pizza and soggy broccoli.

I had a nightmare that that same wife is trying to move her entire family to the suburbs and making me look at houses I don't care about and talking to me about updated kitchens where maybe I could gas myself and deeply upsetting her middle daughter, OG, who never wants to eat or shower or leave the house, let alone move to a new one. As you already know, OG spends 36 hours straight on the couch in a XXL light-blue unicorn onesie and, upon the mere mention of the suburbs, starts yelling at her mommy and roars her terrible roar and gnashes her terrible teeth and rolls her terrible eyes and shows her terrible claws because she will never, ever move to Where the White People Live.

I had a nightmare that I still don't know what 80% of my students look like cuz COVID will. not. go. away. Don't get me wrong; I'm not anti-mask. I'm just anti these anti-vax fuckfaces who continue giving hope to the virus and are entirely responsible for the fact that we can't get back to normal.

I had a nightmare that one child on Boni's swim team tested positive for COVID and everything was cancelled for two weeks. Doesn't matter that most kids on the team are vaxxed. Doesn't matter that they're in a pool. Doesn't matter that CDC guidelines say five-day quarantine for someone who tests positive and zero-day quarantine for close contacts. 40 kids couldn't swim for two weeks cuz one kid got sick and we officially live in an idiocracy.

I had a nightmare that I am no longer an educator. I am, instead, a validator. I validate your need for a mental health day. I validate you needing to turn in your essay late because you missed a day of school. I validate your need for a trigger warning because anything could be triggering to anyone at any time, so I will of course make sure I provide you with a trigger warning for everything all the time because I validate any and everything you need.

I had a nightmare that I was coaching the worst group of 13-year-old girls who have ever stepped foot on a basketball court. They run with the ball cuz they don't know the rules or how to dribble. Their shots go over the backboard cuz they are uncoordinated spazzes. They applaud when someone makes a lay-up. Panini is the best player on the team only cuz everyone else is absolutely wretched.

Speaking of Panini, I had a nightmare that she got her first boyfriend whose name rhymes with Silly. Well, to be precise, I had a nightmare that Panini told her mother and me that she and Silly Billy were "talking." The scariest part of the nightmare, however, is that Panini has neither spoken to nor met Stranger Danger Billy. They've texted. They've Snap'd. They've even sent voice messages. But they have literally never engaged in one of those things called a "conversation," ya know, when one person says something and then the other person says something and then the first person says something else, and so on and so forth. And certainly they've never actually sat in the same room and looked each other in the eye while engaging in aforementioned "conversation." They had plans to go to a movie so they could sit in the dark, thereby continuing their no talking and no looking at each other romance, but Butthead Billy got in trouble and got his phone taken away from him, so the movie never happened. In sum, Panini is "talking" to a boy with whom she has never spoken and whom she has never met and who is a big enough fuck-up that he got the most precious object in his life taken away from him.

I had a nightmare that that same Panini, my smart, sweet teenage girl whom I love more than life itself, is truly the dumbest person in the world. A bunch of times now, she has woken up at 1am, taken a shower, and gotten dressed, only to realize that it is, in fact, the middle of the night. She babysits for a family that lives directly on the other side of the alley, but the other day she had to walk around the block rather than go through the alley, and she called me cuz she got lost. 

I had a nightmare that clear instructions were provided to my youngest children that, regardless of when they wake up, they should stay in bed and read until 8am, at which point they should go downstairs, turn on the TV, watch an episode on Netflix, come back upstairs, and crawl into bed quietly with mommy and daddy. Despite these instructions, Broosevelt came into my room at 7am to tell me he couldn't sleep, again at 7:20 to tell me he still couldn't sleep and ask if he could rest in my bed, again at 7:40 to ask if he could start watching an episode, and then again (with his sister this time) at 8:00 to inform me that the TV wasn't working. 

I also had a nightmare that Lil' Broosevelt, whom I once loved dearly, keeps asking me questions such as, "Daddy, will you brush my teeth?," "Daddy, will you wipe me?," and "Daddy, what does cock mean?"

Update: Panini FaceTimed with Billy.

The State of Our Schools

If Jeffrey Epstein is a 10, and a faithful, devoted husband who engages in bi-weekly fantasies about his 6th grade schoolmarm is a 1, Louis CK is a 3. Did he abuse his power? Absolutely. Did he hurt people? Definitely. But he is not, as some claim, a "sexual predator." He's a chubby, unattractive 54-year-old who, 20 years ago, was such a worthless sack that all he could do was pleasure himself from across the room.

He is also a comedic genius, and I will be stealing his "Of course, but maybe..." bit for this post. If you haven't seen it, I really, strongly, adamantly encourage you to watch this clip:

Of Course, But Maybe - Louis CK

Of course Louis CK should be criticized for his behavior and receive professional and financial consequences for his actions. He took advantage of innocent women and should suffer for having done so. Of course.

But maybe......it's grossly unfair to lump him in with the Epsteins of the world and most people deserve a second chance and it's been 20 years, so let's forgive but not forget and share a fucking laugh.

Of course COVID is real and we need to mask up, social distance, and quarantine when we test positive. Omicron is contagious af, and now's not the time to let down our guards. Of course.

But maybe......it's been two years of this bullshit and pandemic fatigue is real and it's time for a little survival of the fittest.

Of course Chicago Public School teachers have every right to stay home. Of course they do. They have immunocompromised elderly parents and unvaccinated young children, and they need to protect themselves and their families by teaching remotely.

But maybe......kids desperately need to be at school and teachers are front-line workers so they (just like doctors, nurses, factory workers, grocery clerks, etc.) need to stop complaining and do their god damn civic duty.

Of course students should be able to use their phones in class. Of course. They need to be able to communicate with their parents and, in case of an emergency, must always be available. Their phones keep them safe, and they must have access to them at all times.

But maybe......kids can put down their digital vice and be present for like two seconds and if their dog dies at 10:00, their parents can call the school secretary on a landline like we did back in 1980, and the secretary can walk her tired old bones up to the third floor, and the kid can find out about the dead dog at 10:05.

Of course students should be able to go to the bathroom any time they need to. Using the lavatory is a physical issue, perhaps even a medical one, and children have no control over when nature calls. In fact, they shouldn't even need to ask permission. They should simply be able to walk out of the classroom at any time to pee, poop, or deal with any other bodily need.

But maybe......we should bring back the giant wooden bathroom pass and kids should shit in the morning before they come to school and you got five minutes to use it, hurry up.

Of course students with special circumstances should be exempted from homework. One of my students says she has a mother with a brain tumor and a brother with a neurological disorder, and that she doesn't “have the privilege of being able to do homework.” Of course this student shouldn't have to do any work outside of school hours. Of course.

But maybe......this kid, like every kid, needs to figure out how to deal with life's adversities and yes, sorry, you still have to take the pop quiz.

Of course students' mental health is the top priority. Of course. No student should be forced to complete an assignment if they're not in the right head-space, and of course students should have as much time as they need to finish their work. Sure, it was only a four-sentence paragraph and you had almost 20 minutes to work on it in class, but if you're genuinely struggling to stay focused and be productive, then of course you should receive an extension and submit your work when you're ready. Of course.

But maybe......you had 17 days of vacation to finish up that paragraph and anything you could possibly say to me right now will only make your situation worse, so just sit back down and please shut the fuck up.

Of course gender-appropriate nouns and pronouns should be used at all times. When I address a group of students, I shouldn't say, "Hey guys!" because one of those students uses he/him pronouns but one uses she/her pronouns and one uses they/them pronouns, and "guys" in this context is gender-specific and, therefore, inaccurate. So of course I should address these students with "Hey everybody" (even though there are only three of them) or "Hey y'all" (even though I'm not from Alabama) or "Hey scholars" (even though that'd be totally stupid and awkward as fuck).

But maybe......"guys" just mean "dudes" and "dudes" can be any gender and, yes, I know "guys" technically means "boys" but "them" is also technically plural, so maybe we can all just relax a tiny bit?

Of course my female students should be able to wear whatever they want. Of course. Their bodies should not be policed, least of all by an adult, heterosexual male, and they should feel absolutely comfortable wearing whatever suits them. Body-shaming is real, and girls should love their bodies, not hide them.

But maybe......just maybe......if you feel as uncomfortable as you look, you should put on a god damn sweater.

Cheaters Always Win

Allow me to introduce you to Harley*, a sour 7-year-old who goes to school with Boni, my sweet little 2nd grader who, in the eyes of her moronic teachers, can do no wrong. Harley and Boni are in the same class, sit at the same table, and, until recently, were close friends.

Turns out, however, that Harley is a mean, manipulative bitch. Yesterday, she pushed Broosevelt into a wall, and then lied and said she was “just trying to get by.” When kids don’t want to play with her, she tells them she won’t be friends with them anymore. She has a Hate List of the kids she doesn't like. Worst of all, she has made Boni an accomplice in her Post-its Crime Ring.

I’m sure you all remember the Behavior Reflection Sheet (see below) sent home with Boni a few weeks ago for taking a bunch of Post-its. Well, a few days ago, she brought home some more, and she and Broosevelt had a grand ol’ time sticking them on the ceiling of my car, trashing the living room with them, and putting “Kick me” signs on their unsuspecting mother. She said a boy named Riley had given her the Post-its and, though I was reminded of the previous Post-its incident, I said nothing.

Then, yesterday, as we were walking home from school, Boni took not one, not two, but three full pads of Post-its out of her jacket pocket.

"Where'd you get those?"

"From Riley."

"Where did he get them?"

"From Harley."

"Where'd Harley get them?"

"I'm not sure. Probably from the Post-its bin."

"So, she stole them?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?! Don't you realize you're now an accomplice to Harley's crime and that the rest of your life is fucking ruined?!"

Boni quickly realized the error of her ways and that Harley had likely stolen the Post-its. We agreed she would return the Post-its to her teacher, explain why she had them (without naming names), and apologize.

But here's the thing: Every time Boni makes a mistake, she magically and unfairly gets more respect from her teacher. Last month, when she ganked the Post-its with no help whatsoever, she won Student of the Month for "Communicator" and got a free t-shirt. Turns out all you have to do to earn praise is steal, say sorry, and have pretty blue eyes.

This afternoon, when Boni anonymously snitches on her classmates yet takes responsibility for her own wrongdoing, she'll probably be wearing cute little pig-tails and win a god damn Purple Heart.

Allegedly, Democratic voter fraud in Chicago helped get Kennedy elected in 1960, but he's a national hero. Allegedly, Republican political corruption in Florida helped get George W. Bush elected in 2000, but he’s a saint compared to Trump. Allegedly, Boni stole some Post-its, but she gets to be the line-leader and win Snitch o’ the Month.  

Cheaters always win. Unless you're Harley and you suck and get ratted on and die alone.

*Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.