"Pissing is how the devil enters childrens' loins," claims my spanish teacher Senora "my ass is clenched so tight you can hear it squeak" Trott. She issued her wild, hormone-frenzied class of crazed baboons one paper ticket granting us access to a toilet. The ticket can only be used once...every six weeks. When our impatient young bladders are ready to explode out of our orifices and we actually have to ask to pee in spanish. So by this point some poor wretch, wracked with pain and sweating profusely, has to stand cross-legged in front of the teacher's desk while she pretends not to understand him with a look of cruel, mocking confusion plastered across her face. In the rare occasion that, through a series of intricate hand motions and sound effects, they are able to gain access to the hallway they must then spend a minute signing themselves out on a sheet she keeps tucked away in a dark, hard-to-reach crevice. If you're gone for more than five minutes while your now diabetes-infected genetalia are emitting pre-decayed urine she calls security to make sure we're not engaging in "inappropriate signs of affection."

Why in the name of holy christ in heaven does she need to punish us for posessing bowels? I mean, what the hell went wrong in her life that she has to give herself delusions of granduer in that she can subject fourteen-year-olds to mild torture and humiliation?