Once upon a time it was the mispronounced month of Feb-ewe-ary, (or February, as it was generally written) in the city of Chicago, located in the sorry, scandal-ridden cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise. Of course, it must be noted, in an obvious effort to improve city-state relations by demonstrating imitation as the sincerest form of flaaattery, Chicago was not doing too shabbily in the scandal department, either.

For the local news media, it was a bonaanza. There were weekly revelations about hired trucks and fired mobsters, and lazy workers and hazy deals. There was graft and corruption and nepotism — old-style business as ewesual — and now there were ongoing conflicts about the public schools — new style business as ewesual.

For the membersheep of the CTEwe, the future was fraught with danger. The entire educational situation, what with No Child Left Behind, charter schools, vouchers, school closings, and intensified testing of teachers, was baaad enough by itself. But noooo.

There was more.

It was THAT time again — time for contraact negotiations. Well, it wasn’t really and truly time for contraact renewal, since the existing so-called “terrible” contraaact didn’t expire until June 2007. Nevertheless, the self-selected leadersheep of the CTEwe were plotting and planning to raaam through another loser, and they wanted everything locked up sooner rather than later. They were eager to force the process along no matter what.

“Is this like the time before last?” asked Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good.

“You mean 1998? The CTEwe version of 1984?” said Millicent Militant, her long-time friend, who, like Ewenice, was likewise blessed with a remarkable memory. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for most of the membersheep.

“Exactly. I remember how that contract just got railroaded through, and afterwards, everyone insisted that they voted ‘no’, but the Reece administration passed it anyway. He claimed the vote was almost ewenanimous.”

“Well,” observed Millicent, “almost is a weasel word.”

“Right,” agreed Scott Skeptic, journalism teacher-in-exile, who had stopped by for his weekly chat. “They use words like ‘almost’ so they can’t be charged with telling total untruths. It’s just another sneaky taaactic.”

“They have so many,” whined Ewenice.

“Old news,”snapped Millicent. “We need to see what we can do to minimize the damage. Let me see the list of demands, please.”

Ever-efficient Clara Clark, the clerk, handed over the materials. Interestingly enough, the so-called “new” demands were few and far between, and the “new” contraact looked remarkably like its predecessor in many ways.

“Am I correct in assuming that they want to restore most of the extra seven school days we just managed to get rid of?” asked Millicent in an uncharacteristically ungrammatical query.

“The leadersheep said we shouldn’t have to stay an extra fifteen minutes every day,” volunteered Nancy Naive, darling of the ruling Pee-Yu caucus. “It was naasty.”

Millicent was desperately trying to control herself. She was torn between baaashing her head against the wall or strangling Nancy. Instead, she asked, “Why do you say that, Nancy?” in her sweetest voice.

“It’s abusive. It’s all HER fault that we have to get there early and stay late.”

“But most of us get there before the bell rings anyway,” reasoned Ewenice. “That way, we can hang up our coats, check any notices or bulletins, and get organized for the day before the students come in—”

“Big deal. We are professionals. We can get organized while the kids are sitting there. They have nothing better to do, anyway,” said Nancy.

“And most of us take a few minutes after school to put things away—”

“Again. We are professionals. We can do that while the kids are sitting there. They have nothing else to do,” she repeated in a parrot-like manner.

Many brows were becoming furrowed in confusion. Most of the membersheep knew that the children had plenty to do, and that there was never enough time in the day to accomplish everything.

The leadersheep, on the other hand, were so far removed from the classroom that the students were merely an abstraction. They were all members of the Pee-Yu caucus, the oligarchy that was currently in power. The Pee-Yu caucus had other priorities, and, given its pronounced propensity to produce a plethora of new and amazingly devious ways to skew voting results, it was seemingly positioned to remain there forever.

Sort of like Tom Reece, former CTEwe President-for-Life, a/k/a Prince of the Prodigious Pension.

“But with the previous Agreement, we had seven fewer days of school. Seven whole days. Seven days for vacation time, or clean-up time at home —”

“Or job-hunting time,” interjected Scott.

“—So we don’t have to stay until June 47th anymore,” said Ewenice. “We can even sign up for summer classes like all the other teachers.”

Nancy laughed. It was a nasty little snicker. “That’s really lame. Who needs to take classes?”

“Recertification?”

“Oh. Well. That’s just another way SHE screwed up. All of us got immediate blaaanket recertification,” she bleated. Blurted.

Scott’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What did you say?”

“You people are so baackwards, worrying about unimportant little details. You always miss the big picture. That’s why the real leaders are back in charge.”

“What was that about immediate blaaanket recertification?” Scott asked again, this time with his handy-dandy little reporter’s notebook in hand.

Once upon a time it was a little-known fact, but a fact nonetheless, that the CTEwe was veryveryclose to the Ill-A-Noise Federation of Teachers, which in turn was veryveryvery close to Governor Blaaablaa. As yet another matter of fact, the IFT was largely responsible for his election, having dumped tons of money into his primary campaign. No good deed goes unpunished, and therefore Governor Blaaablaa, as evvyboddy knew, was in control of the Ill-A-Noise State Bored of Education.

Once in a great while, a few of the obscenely overpaid IFT leadersheep reluctantly tore themselves away from their juicy jobs, and subsequently retired. Thereupon they accepted their blaatantly bloated pensions, and magically found themselves appointed as membersheep on the State Bored of Education, where they were free to make important decisions on behalf of their special friends.

It was perfectly acceptable. It was sort of legal. It wasn’t exactly ethical, but hey. It was Ill-A-Noise.

So, once upon a time, a few short years ago, while the CTEwe was in turmoil following a seriously flawed officers election — the election being flawed, not the officers — well, that’s another story for another day — and the leadersheep of the IFT and AFT were assiduously avoiding acting in a fair and impartial manner, some sneaky deals were struck behind closed doors.

It was top-secret. It was sticky. It was perfect.

It was Pammy Pretty, CTEwe lobbyist.

And so, once upon a time, it was sad but true that all CTEwe membersheep were not created equal. There were two lists: one for all currently employed teachers and support staff, and another for the very special teachers and staff who were members of the Pee-Yu caucus. They were given preferential treatment in many ways.

Scott was busy doing research on the recertification scheme-scam, but, with more than 80,000 teachers across the state, each of whom could submit up to 120 individual pieces of verification, it was slow going. It became obvious that Nancy’s comment could be correct. There was such a baaacklog of recertification materials that anything could be hidden anywhere. Or lost. Or found. It all depended upon the situation and the status of the teacher in question. And, of course, where someone was listed.

Meanwhile, Pammy was pacing around her Chicago suite, which served as her CTEwe headquarters when she was not staying at the Sssspringfield Ritz. (Actually, according to some former insiders, who were now in the witness relocation program, Ssspringfield wasn’t very high on her agenda. The shopping was decidedly inferior.) Anyway, the suite was situated within the opulent offices of the CTEwe leadersheep, located in the world-famous Merchandise Maart, overlooking the lovely Chicago River. The multi-million dollar annual lease had just been renewed for another ten years, much to the relief of the leadersheep, who certainly had no desire to work in anything that remotely resembled a public school building. Ugh. The very thought gave them shivers.

Pammy was engrossed in triple-checking the instant recertification list when Teddy, the Obsequious Toady, dared to disturb her. He knocked politely once or twice on the bulletproof door; when there was no response, he tried the doorknob, setting off an alarm that caused him to jump back in terror.

Nope. It was really just Pammy, shrieking “Whaaaaat?!! What do you want?”

Ugly rumors, like poison mushrooms, had begun to sprout from sources close to the Big Baaad Bored of Education; teacher cuts and school closings lurked just over the horizon.

“The horizon is here,” observed Teddy.

“What are you baaabbling about?” she shrieked.

“It’s on the news. The Bored is closing eleven schools!!”

“So?”

Teddy just stood there, mouth agape. That was certainly not the response he had expected. “What about all the members that will lose their jobs?”

“What about them? They should have worked harder. Serves them right,” she snapped.

“What about the decrease in dues revenue?”

“See, Teddy, that’s why you’re not the president,” she sneered, jabbing at him with her meticulously manicured index finger. “We already took care of that.”

“Who? How?” he whined in confusion.

“We made a deal with Sssspringfield. Signed, sealed and delivered. Anyone working in a Chicago charter school will have to pay dues to the CTEwe,” she explained. “So, lose a few teachers here, gain a few teachers there. It’s not a problem.”

“It might be a problem for the unemployed CPS teachers,” observed Teddy in a rare moment of candor.

“Oh, get over that goody-goody act,” she replied. “You’re not the president, remember? Why are you frowning?”

“It’s not enough.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. “But we have a plan for that, too. As a matter of fact, we’re working on home-schooling, now.”

“You mean that parents who home-school will have to pay CTEwe dues, too?”

“We hope so. And maybe we can squeeze private and parochial schools in, too. But don’t say anything about that just yet.”

“Why not?” he asked, innocently.

“Because it’s a secret!!” she screamed.

“Like a surprise?”

“Exactly. Zip your lip or else!!”

Teddy the Obsequious Toady wasn’t certain what “or else” would be, but he knew he didn’t want to find out. He left Pammy’s suite at top speed, grateful to have escaped with his life and some of his hearing intact.

Meanwhile, back at school, everyone was reading: some were comparing the old contraact with the new proposals, some were guffawing through the CTEwe newspaper, which was nothing more than pages of pictures of the leadersheep, and some were marveling at the nerve of the triple-dippers who were running as retired dull-a-gates.

“What do you mean, triple-dippers?” asked Nancy. “They are truly dedicated to the CTEwe.”

“Let’s see,” mused Millicent. “Those are former field drips, special assistants and officers, all with huge pensions based on their former huge salaries and perks and bonuses, who are now big-time salaried CTEwe employees who monopolize the microphones at every House meeting — “

“So, what’s the problem?” said Scott.

“Right,” agreed Millicent. “They retired before they were rehired. So?”

“Oh. I see,” they said.

“O.I.C.”