By Sister Grim 

Once upon a time, as the year 2005 crept along, it was November in the city of Chicago, located in the sorry scandal-ridden cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise, and the autumn leaves of red and gold were falling, not unlike the ax of the Big Baad Bored of Education, since it was now past the fabled twentieth day of school, and many of the perpetually mistreated membersheep of the CTEwe were anxiously anticipating the news of their possible termination.

Baaack at the opulent overpriced offices of the CTEwe leadersheep, symbolically situated along the famous baaackwards-flowing Chicago River, there was actually some ewenion-related activity among the underworked overpaid field drips, owing primarily to the thousands of telephone calls coming in on a daily basis.

Mostly it consisted of snickering about the teachers who were being let go. Many of the field drips were able to keep a straight face while participating in an actual conversation, waiting to guffaw after hanging up. If there was simply a message from a distraught teacher who had just been terminated after twenty years in the trenches, the hilarity was instantaneous.

“Can you believe how gullible they are?” said Nasty Nicky, whose daily naptime, as well as his subsequent solitaire game, had been disrupted by the flurry of phone calls. “They tell us their tales of woe, and then they think we’re gonna do something for them. Like what can we do?? Everybody knows — altogether now — ‘it’s her fault’. The last contraaaact tied our hands and we can’t help them anymore.”

Once upon a time, ever since they had cheated their way baack into office, the PeeYu plotters took every opportunity to blame everything on Debbie, the previous president of the CTEwe. Given the growing public disillusionment with the current state of ewenionism in the USA, it was possible that she would be the penultimate president, as well. Any problem, mostly of PeeYu design, became “her fault”. Anything good, like her pension buyout plan, which enabled thousands of teachers to escape — oops, retire — earlier and/or more profitably, was either hijaaacked, ignored, or distorted into incomprehensibility.

“What do you mean by that?”

“ They can just sit there. They voted for it, after all. They voted for her, too, as we all know but will never admit, upon pain of death. The question is, why should we knock ourselves out for a bunch of ingrates?”

Good question. However, once upon a time, the “new” CTEwe contract was basically a reworking of the same old same old: the standard PeeYu contact, with a few changes here and there, was the very thing they were complaining about. Like everything else, unfortunately, the PeeYu ruling paaarty never missed a chance to discredit Debbie.

“Some of them will call back again and again. What do we do with them?”

“Ignore them. Eventually they’ll stop calling,”advised field drip Ellen Tootoomacho, as she stuck pins into the little voodoo doll on her desk.

“But aren’t we supposed to be helping the membersheep?” asked Jonathan Livinggood Seagull, one of the recent additions to the ever-expanding division of field drips.

All activity ceased as everyone stared at him in disbelief. “Watch what you say,” hissed Ellen.

“Oh, come on,” he laughed. “I was only kidding. Relax.”

“Not funny,” grumped Nasty Nicky. “Dummies out of work, that’s funny. Try that goody-goody stuff again and you’re out of here.”

“Okay. I got it.”

“And you can go baaack to the claaassroom!!”

Jonathan Livinggood Seagull turned ashen at the very thought, and scurried baack to his climate-controlled, carpeted, comfortable office overlooking the city, where he attempted to look busy, perusing the latest issue of GQ . He had never been so terrified in his entire life, as “baack to he classroom” echoed in his head.

One of the other field drips added, “But they keep calling. And now they’re beginning to come down here, to the Holy Headquarters. They have nothing else to do, except go to the Big Baaad Bored. Nobody is going to hire them now, in the middle of everything.”

“ Except maybe McDonald’s,” suggested Tootoomacho in her typical charming way.

Just then they all froze. They could hear the dainty footfalls of those Manolo Blaaahniks a mile away. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Stop. A screech followed, as night follows he day.

“WHAT ARE THEY DOING HERE?????” asked Pammy Pretty, in tones that could easily trigger an avalanche, referring to the unemployed teachers in the waiting area. “WHO LET THEM IN???? WHERE ARE THOSE SECURITY GUARDS????”

With that, she whirled around, screaming “TED!!!”

And something happened. Not necessarily a miracle, but certainly amusing. While everyone else covered their ears and shielded their computers, two Teds came running from opposite directions in the sumptuous multi-million dollar office suite. Not one. Two.

One was Teddy the Obsequious Toady, resentfully playing second fiddle to Marilyn Mumbles, the illegally selected president. The other was Teddy BigHead, who had rapidly risen from school Dull-a-Gate to sergeant-at-arms to new field drip, due to his ability to intimidate membersheep at the microphones or on the floor of the House. He was almost as nasty as Pammy, and clearly earmarked for success, since he exemplified everything about the PeeYu caucus. PeeYu.

Neither Teddy was paying particular attention as they stampeded along, which is why they crashed into each other in front of Pammy and several thoroughly astonished unemployed membersheep, who looked at each other in amaaazement. Pammy glared down at both of them with the utter contempt for which she was so justifiably famous.

“NOT YOU!!” she screamed at TeddyBigHead, who was still seeing stars following the collision with Teddy the Obsequious Toady. “Why would I call YOU? You just got promoted to field drip. You might have been good terrorizing little lady dull-a-gates, but you’re just a small potato here at Holy Headquarters. Got it?”

Teddy BigHead nodded, which gave him an instant BigHead headache.

Then Pammy whirled around.

“Yes?” mumbled Teddy the Obsequious Toady, who was really getting tired of these almost daily occurrences.

“I want to know why THOSE people are sitting on our newly upholstered furniture. They’re a bunch of fashions dont’s. WHO let them in?”

“The office doors are unlocked during the day,” he said. “Remember?”

“Then fix it!! This will never do,” she said as she stomped back to her recently redecorated office suite.

The unemployed teachers were still sitting there, openmouthed at the spectacle they had witnessed. Three hours later they were still sitting there, waiting to talk to someone who could advise them. Anyone. Oh well. Too baaad. Too late. Somewhere in the vicinity of 3 pm, field drips and office staff began to leave, followed by the CTEwe leadersheep, almost but not quite obscured by their phalanx of security guards. By 3:30, no one was left except for the Merchandise Maaart cleaning service and one unfortunate switchboard operator.

Baaack at school, Millicent Militant and her friend Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good, were discussing the reported goings-on at the CTEwe House of Dull-a-Gate meetings. Scott Skeptic, journalism teacher-in-exile, who was frequently barred from entering the meeting hall, had put his time to good use.

He had lists. Lists of Dull-a-Gates who walked in one door, picked up their meeting baaadges and paackets, thereby verifying their attendance for the purposes of payment, and then walked out to their waiting cars. Lists of those who stepped outside to pass their baaadges on to sycophants and triple-dipper staff members who didn’t belong at the meetings, but managed to insinuate themselves at the microphones anyway. Lists of lies told so often that people began to believe them through sheer repetition. Lots of lists.

“But the actual meetings sound ridiculous,” said Ewenice.

“You mean about the minutes?”

“That’s part of it. Where are they?”

“Good question.”

“What about the miscounting on votes?” asked Millicent.

“They’re just utilizing the method established by Bob Healey and perfected by Tom Reece, president-for-life.”

“Which is?”

“Make up whatever numbers you like and announce them in a loud and authoritative voice.”

“That’s cheating!!”

“That’s right,” agreed Scott. “But, as you probably have noticed by now, it’s hard to fight city hall - or, in this case, the CTEwe leadersheep. They even managed to screw up the pension trustee vote by obfuscating the issues and undermining the integrity of a mail baaallot.”

“You mean, mailing the baallots to school corrupts the entire process, just like the officers elections?” said Millicent.

“You got that right,” agreed Scott. “Certain individuals shouldn’t be anywhere near all that money, given their propensity for lining their own custom-tailored pockets.”

Once upon a time, there was also the mystery of the moving and missing microphones. Old-timers could remember baaack to the days of meetings at the Bismaaarck Hotel, downtown, and the antics with the microphones — loss of power, electrical failure, and so on. It was only a prelude to the performances at Plumbers Hall, however, where the microphones were now just in front of the leadersheep, who already had their own bank of microphones, turned from the “extra loud” setting to one affectionately marked “Pammy”.

It effectively prevented anyone from speaking at the House meetings, since the sergeants-at-arms always blocked the way. And, if that didn’t work, they would simply snatch the microphones away, thereby ensuring the perpetuation of Marilyn Mumbles Rules of Disorder. Which led to excruciatingly boring meetings, which led to Dull-a-Gates leaving in large numbers, which led to voting without a quorum, which led to passage of whatever the leadersheep wanted. Legality was never a major consideration.

“By the way,” said Nancy Naive, who had been doing her nails in the latest shade — Pammy Pigeonblood, reputed to be the color of the costliest rubies.

“Didn’t I see you at the CTwe Haaaalloween Paaarty last week?”

“They wouldn’t let me in,” said Clara Clark, the clerk.

“Why not? Did you have previous ties to the Other Side?” she asked accusingly.

“I guess I did,” Clara answered. “And somebody dressed like a witch, with a black pointy hat — “

“That was Veronica Vicious,” said Nancy, helpfully. “I really admire her. She’s the PeeYu pit bull.”

“Thank you. Yes. Well, she said I could never, ever come in to any of their paaarties, because I voted the wrong way.”

“How do they know how you voted?” asked Millicent.

“Gee. What a good question.”

“Maybe you saw us at the annual GREED dinner,”

suggested Ewenice.

“I haven’t been to one of those yet,” admitted Nancy. “I’m just a new teacher and that’s a lot of money for corned beef and caabbage.”

“Oh, but there’s so much more to see and hear there,” said Scott. “There’s a reason it’s called the GREED dinner. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Like what?”

“All of your favorite politicians telling you what they think you want to hear.”

“Do they follow through and keep their word?”

“Gee,” they repeated, “what a good question.”

They all looked at each other for a moment. “Oh, I see,” they said. “O.I.C.”