Once upon a time it was December in the city of Chicago, located, as ewesual, in the sorry scandal-ridden cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise, and the surviving membersheep of the CTEwe — those whose schools were still open and those whose positions were yet to be cut — were burning up their little calculators in a futile attempt to juggle holiday expenses along with the boring everyday things like rent, mortgages, car payments and good old health insurance.

For some, it was becoming increasingly apparent that an orange and a few pieces of hard candy would be the perfect gift for anyone on their lists.

But wait!! There was hope on the horizon!! In their infinite wisdom, the leadersheep of the CTEwe announced, by way of their latest scaandal sheet, that all good members would be receiving that much-talked-about, long-promised bonus, based upon previously withheld, unpaid monies for certain teachers.

“It really isn’t fair,” observed Millicent Militant, as she read the latest blaaaah.

“Why not?” asked her friend Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good. Although in this case she knew the answer, and was just playing the devil’s advocate.

“This money that the Big Baaad Bored has been holding baack was for additional pensionable salary for teachers of summer school or other extra programs. It shouldn’t be divided up among everybody, because everybody didn’t earn it,” she said. “It’s a confusing and convoluted pensionability issue, but it is being misapplied somehow. I can just feel it in my bones.”

“Right,” agreed Scott Skeptic, journalism-teacher-in-exile, who had stopped by to chat with his former co-workers, although it was admittedly unpleasant being squished into the tiny little room that served as the faculty lounge.

“Wrong,” interjected Nancy Naive, darling of the Pee-Yu caucus, which was, through hook and crook, courtesy of Larry the liar — oops, lawyer — currently the ruling party of the CTEwe. “Our leaders know exactly how to take care of that money,” she sniffed. “We all get to share. What could be more fair than that?”

“You weren’t even teaching here when all that occurred,” observed Ewenice.

“That doesn’t matter. They told us all about it at the Turkey Trot.”

“The whaaat?”

Nancy sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you people ever read your CTEwe e-mails?”

Most of them shook their heads in the negative. “Too many errors,” said Millicent.

“Too inane,“ said Ewenice. “Paaaarty, paaarty, paaarty. Who has time for that?”

“Too confusing,” said Scott, “what with all the corrections and updates. They mix up days of the week with wrong dates of the month, so you never know which is correct — the day or the date.”

“Well,” sniffed Nancy. “If you would be reading the announcements regularly, you would have known that the Turkey Trot was the November activity. We all get together and have fun. Once a month, at least.”

Millicent was rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Do these so-called ‘activities’ cost money?” asked Scott.

“Well, not really — not officially, that is. But everyone is welcome to make a donation for the downtrodden.”

“How welcome?” asked Scott, just as Les Izmore walked in.

“Pee-Yu paaarty stuff?” he asked. “I was strong-armed for a twenty-dollar donation at the first and last party I ever attended.”

“Not true,“ snapped Nancy. “You had a choice.”

“Right. Pay or leave. Some choice. I already had to pay fifteen dollars for valet parking, and I wasn’t about to just leave after that. So I stayed. I learned my lesson, though. They grilled me for an hour, about my school, my friends, and my general impression of the CTEwe. After that, they said that the Pee-Yu caucus was full, but that if an opening occurred, they would call me.”

“And?”

“Two years later, and I’m still waiting.”

“You know,”mused Millicent, “they never invited me to anything, either. Not ever. I wonder why?”

There was a smattering of snickers.

“How downtrodden?” asked Ewenice as an afterthought.

Once upon a time, long long ago, the CTEwe was created in order to help Chicago Public School teachers cope with the Big Baaad Bored of Education. As decades went by, however, the CTEwe, like many other trade ewenions, became increasingly self-centered, to the great detriment of the membersheep. It had already spawned the Ill-A-Noise Federation of Teachers, aka the IFT; the American Federation of Teachers, aka the AFT, allegedly served as an umbrella organization. In reality, both existed mainly to extract dues money from the local ewenion, in order to fill their coffers in order to finance their own growing gaaaggles of overpaid underworked staff members.

At the same time, a good old-boy network had been developed and nurtured over the years, and all of the previous CTEwe leadersheep, like Pammy Pretty and Tom Reece and especially Larry the liar — oops, lawyer — had a firmly entrenched place at the trough, no matter what, win or lose. The result was good for the leadersheep, baaad for the membersheep, not unlike the proverbial City Hall one could never hope to successfully fight. It meant that there was no one to do the right thing, even in the face of the most egregious cheating, intimidation and exploitation.

Much more worrisome, however, was the blooming romance between the CTEwe and the Big Baaad Bored. It had blossomed during their highly publicized strategic bargaining sessions, and now the CTEwe leadersheep continued to sit sheepishly in quiet acquiescence as new charter schools sprang up all over the city.

The sad fact that many of the new charters were housed in existing Chicago Public School buildings was of no major consequence, as was the other sad fact that many millions had been spent on refurbishing those very buildings after they were declared “underperforming”, and ordered closed by the Big Baaad Bored.

The even sadder fact that many veteran teachers and administrators were displaced, after struggling mightily to work with underprivileged and problem students in dilapidated buildings, without necessary supplies and equipment, was also of no matter to the CTEwe leadersheep or staff.

“Those schools were underperforming anyway. It’s their own fault they got fired,” said the field drips during their weekly lunch meeting at the Four Seasons.

“Make sure not to ever answer your own phone. Always let it go to voice mail. Otherwise you’ll get stuck listening to them whine and complain,” the field drips advised one another.

“I think we need to join a different ewenion, to protect us from the CTEwe,” said Ewenice, half jokingly.

“Why would you even say something like that?” demanded Nancy, naively.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I can never get through to my alleged field drip? Maybe because I’m at the mercy of a psychotic wacko princessipal who thinks she can act like a tyrant, and there’s no one at the CTEwe to back me up.”

“We pay a lot in dues money, and Mumbles keeps on hiring new field drips. Therefore, I should be able to talk to a field drip when I call the first time, and he should be willing to listen and then do what he can to help me,” said Ewenice. “Instead, I am avoided, ignored, and/or ridiculed.”

“That’s for sure,” agreed Les Izmore. “I was at CTEwe headquarters to bring in my membership card, in person, since they lost the other five we filled out, and I did hear some disturbing remarks. They were pretty loud about it, and very negative about some of the teachers who had been trying to call for assistance with all sorts of problems.”

“How long were you there?” asked Millicent, curiously.

“About two hours,” said Les.

“Two hours to drop off a membership card?”

“They said I had to wait until the receptionist came back from lunch.”

Once upon a time Scott was going through his archives, and came upon several baaack issues of the CUD — Chicago Union Digest. From a historical perspective, they were actually quite valuable, since one was never allowed to see any of them at the CTEwe offices. Much like the famous invisible minutes of the House meetings, they were always unavailable. The presumptive editor, John Dishonestenburg, always pretended to be pleasant, but he was no fool, and he knew who ran the show. Since Pammy Pretty was not someone he wanted as an enemy, he continued to stonewall any attempts to verify facts, quotes, or anything else. It made Scott’s legendary hunting and gathering skills that much more worthwhile.

Like any good teacher, in-exile or not, Scott decided to share his discovery with his friends, who immediately began recognizing some famous CTEweish faces. It was not too difficult, since almost every issue of CUD was full of pictures of the once and future herd of leadersheep. Month after month, issue after issue, one could always find dozens of pictures of Tom Reece, Pammy Pretty, Diana Heifer, (not necessarily in that order), Nasty Nicky, and the rest of the gang.

“Look at all the pictures of Tommy and Pammy and everybody. How exciting to see them in action,” gushed Nancy. “But I heard that many of them were forced to retire when that other person tried to be president.”

“She was the president, Nancy, and she was entitled to have her own office and administrative staff, too,” said Millicent.

“That was just so disrespectful,” Nancy continued. “Poor Tommy and Pammy and all the rest were just like fired,” she sighed.

“They lost an election. Like any politicians, they should move on until the next time. Or they can retire. If anyone fired them, it was the membersheep of the CTEwe,” said Scott.

“It was just a terrible thing to do.”

“Right,” said Scott sarcastically. “So terrible that they all managed to wheedle and whine and get back on the CTEwe payroll for even more money than they were getting before.”

“So? They’re experienced, and they work very hard, and they know, like, everything,” Nancy concluded.

So, once upon a time, as the membersheep of the CTEwe looked ahead to the year 2006, the ranks of the leadersheep were stuffed to the gills with old-timers who were collecting sizable pensions based upon their generous CTEwe staff salaries, who were back on the CTEwe payroll as administrative assistants, committee chairs, field drips, and party planners, and who monopolized the microphones at House of Dull-a-Gates meetings. In return, (and supposedly in secret, except that somebody found out anyway), they all had CTEwe-financed luxury cars, sometimes with chauffeurs, newly-decorated CTEwe offices, generous insurance and annuity packages, big salaries, huge settlements for the three years when they were in suspended animation, courtesy of a judge who had been bought and paid for, and, best of all, expense accounts for which no one was accountable.

“It’s kind of like CTEwe astronomy,” observed Scott, as he looked over some of the more incriminating documents he had been able to locate.

“What do you mean?” asked Ewenice.

“Well, we have the Little Dipper and the Big Dipper up there,” he gestured, and we have the famous double dipper and triple dipper right here.”

“Oh, I see,” they agreed.

“O.I.C.”