Alright, now I think it's safe to say
that one of the best things about high school
is that you get to pick your own classes.
And one of the most popular classes
for a stout young man like myself was Woodshop.
Now, my high school had two woodshop teachers.
The first guy, Mr. Canard was a fantastic woodshop teacher.
My god, Anthony, that's a fantastic coffee table you made there.
May the winds of success always be under thy wings.
But the second guy, my teacher, Mr. Schroeder,
was a little subpar, to say the least.
Now, I don't know where Mr. Schroeder came from,
but I'm pretty sure my principal just walked into a Home Depot one day,
and found a guy, like,
"Hey, you look like somebody's dad,
you want to come teach a bunch of dumbass kids
how to work a bandsaw?"
Now, Mr. Schroeder was not what I would call a very hands-on teacher.
I mean, he'd basically just sit at his desk all day long,
and read sports illustrated magazine.
"Hey, should we, like, work on a project or something?"
"Uh? Oh, I don't know, go ask the teacher."
"Uh, but you are the teacher."
"Oh yeah, that's right!"
"Uh yeah, go build a fucking shelf or something."
"Uh, how do you do that?"
"Well, how the hell should I know, what do I look like?
A goddamn teacher? Go get to work!"
So we'd just work on some random project,
with some vague sense of direction.
"Hey, do you know how to operate the radial arm saw?"
"Dude, I don't even know how to put my fucking goggles on."
Hell, some of the kids wouldn't even work on a project.
They'd just screw around all period.
"Hey, you wanna go throw pencils at Derek, while he's on the band saw?"
"Hha-hah, okay!"
(Whoosh-thwack!)
Aw! What the...
"Hha-hah, hha-hah!"
(Whoosh-thwack!)
"Hey, stop it, it's dangerous!"
"Hha-hah, hha-hah!"
(Whoosh-thwack!)
Stop it, I mean it!
"Hha-hah, hha-hah!"
(Whoosh-thwack!)
"Oh my God, there's so much blood!"
So needless to say, under Mr. Schroeder's fantastic tutelage,
all of our projects looked like two turds smashed together.
The only person that was actually good at woodworking
was the only girl in the class.
She was like Bob Vila,
making all of our projects look like shit.
But it didn't matter, because Mr. Schroeder's lazy ass
would just give everybody a B- and call it a day.
"Uh, Mr. Schroeder, I think there's been a mistake."
"What? What do you mean, what are you talking about?"
"Well, you gave me a B-,
and then you gave Billy a B- over there.
And all he did was glue a Popsicle stick to a 2x4."
"Hey, I like popsicles, popsicles are good.
Even though they're cold and make my head hurt, B-."
So since there wasn't much of an incentive to do well on your projects,
we just made shitty things all the time.
Throughout the semester I made a box that didn't hold shit,
a shelf, that didn't support shit,
(Thud, glass shatters)
And a stool, that was built like a fucking Home Alone booby trap.
(Thud, crack!) Oh, my pelvis!
But for our final project of the year,
we had the task of designing and creating our own custom birdhouses.
And boy, you can bet your ass,
they were some ugly birdhouses indeed.
I mean, besides the Bob Vila chick, of course.
Her ass over there building a fucking house from Prince of Bel-Air and shit.
But I was a little less ambitious.
My birdhouse, of course, was a duplex.
Because well, I lived in a duplex,
and it was a shitty experience, to say the least.
Why shouldn't birds be able to share the same shitty experience?
"Hey, asshole, stop fucking cooking your Indian food down there,
you're stinking up my whole living room!"
"Yeah, I'll get right on it, buddy,
just as soon as you stop having loud relations with your wife up there!"
Now of course, all of our birdhouses looked like absolute garbage
when we were done.
My holes were all off-center, and my roof was barely hanging on.
No bird is gonna wanna live in this fucking house.
"Uh yeah, I think I'd rather get my ass snatched up by a hawk,
than live in this piece--
(Hawk call)
But to make matters worse,
we had to display our shitty birdhouses in the hallway
for like a week.
You got people walking by, clueless as hell.
"Good lord, somebody call the janitor,
who left all this garbage in the hallway?"
And to make matters even more worse,
Mr. Canard's class did the same project,
and they put their birdhouses in the same hallway.
So there you have Mr. Canard's immaculate-ass birdhouses on the table,
then right down the hallway,
boom, fucking Section 8 housing of the birdhouses.
Mr. Schroeder's classes' finest work!
So at the end of the project we all get our B-,
fucking Bob Vila chick is pissed as hell,
"God damn it, Mr. Schroeder, are you serious?"
"Billy's birdhouse didn't even have a fucking roof on it!"
But the best part of the whole story was
that one of my classmates did get an A on his birdhouse,
but was it for his craftsmanship and his stellar design?
No, it was because he fucking put a Cleveland Browns sticker on it,
and Mr. Schroeder liked the Cleveland Browns.
"Hey, I like the Browns, the Cleveland Browns are good!
Even though they're brown, not orange. A+!"
"God damn it, are you kidding me?!"
https://brewstew.com
https://patreon.com/brewstew
https://twitter.com/brewstewfilms https://www.instagram.com/brewstew_films
https://www.facebook.com/brewstewcom