By Sister Grim 

Once upon a time it was springtime in the city of Chicago, which was still unfortunately located in the sorry scandal-ridden cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise.

Longtime rumors of secession had proved to be just rumors, after all, and everyone living within the Ill-A-Noise borders was still subject to the whims and vagaries of its variously elected and/or selected politicians. It was embarrassing, after all, when the office of governor became the fast track to prison.

The only area of agreement between state and city reporting was on the subject of public education. So, even though the much-maligned membersheep of the CTEwe could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel as another school year dwindled down to the final ten weeks, they were still being bashed regularly in print and the electronic news media.

Late spring was a time of truly fun activities, starting with the semi-annual grade pick-up fiasco, wherein lots of membersheep sat around all day awaiting the arrival of the parents and/or guardians of the students who never came to class, in order to inform said parents/guardians of the unsatisfactory progress of the aforementioned missing little miscreants.

Membersheep who dutifully attended both day-long time-wasters were rewarded with a half-day off on the actual, final, absolutely, truly and conclusively last day of school, which, thanks to the selected leadersheep of the CTEwe, would soon revert back to June 47th. Anyone unfortunate enough to miss one session had to stay a few more hours on the last day, sitting outside the prince- or princessipal’s office like a baaad kid. Anyone with the good sense to miss both sessions had to stay for the whole last day, still parked on a bench outside the office of the prince- or princessipal, displayed like a baaad example for all to see.

It was almost heresy to deliberately miss grade pick-up twice. Les Izmore had missed the initial session due to serious illness, and had been publicly scolded for it. With not much more to lose, he decided to eschew the second session as well, as a sort of science experiment. Many of the other membersheep were scaaandalized by such blatant disregard for the rules.

“Where were you yesterday?” asked Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good.

“Yeah,” added Millicent Militant. “There were three, maybe four parents to see you.”

“In an hour?” he asked.

Millicent laughed. “All day. I gave them their grade sheets and all the other paperwork. You didn’t miss much.”

“But he’ll get a baaad rating!!” whined Nancy Naive.

“So?”

“He wasn’t there for the parents.”

“So? Do you have any idea how many parents I call every day?” he asked. “Do you know how many even bother to call back?”

“What do you mean, so? Did you just win the lottery or something? Do you want to lose your job?”

Les just smiled. “We’ll see,” he added, mysteriously.

It was also time for testing once again. Students were expected to demonstrate their improved academic skills after another year at school; they were to do so by taking exams that were poorly researched, ambiguously written, and lacking in validity. No matter. It was all part of an ongoing pattern. It even had a name: Design for Failure. It was the first and only time that the Big Baaad Bored of Education actually got what it paid for. It was a poor situation for any students whose first language was not English: no allowances were made for extended time for those students, who could, arguably, do much better with extra time to accommodate the language difference.

If test scores did not improve throughout the system, schools would be closed, and teachers would be fired, thereby providing the Big Baaad Bored of Education with more excuses to open charter schools staffed with six-week wonders who had yet to “find” themselves. Since those schools didn’t face the same scrutiny, however, it was not a problem. The membersheep of the CTEwe could still be blamed for the lack of student progress.

It was a perfect time to reinvigorate the sport of teacher-bashing, since contraact negotiations between the CTEwe and the Big Baaad Bored were set to begin, with the much-maligned Lynch contract entering its final year. It was a sad fact that never changed, no matter which group was in charge of the CTEwe: the membersheep were always portrayed as lazy moneygrubbers, overpaid and underworked, and there were test scores to prove it.

The Scabune had already launched a front-page story about the depressing graduation rates and the lack of college opportunities for CPS students, and Baaarack Obaaama, the junior senator from the sorry scandal-ridden cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise, could find nothing better to do than promote merit pay for teachers.

Once upon a time, like so many times before, it was not a good time to be a teacher. And if any of them expected any help or defense from the CTEwe, to which they all paid sizable dues, they were saadly mistaken. The sneakily selected leadersheep could not bother writing letters to the editor, or appearing on talk shows to explain conditions and situations over which none of them had any control. They had other fish to fry.

Meanwhile, back at the opulent riverfront offices of the CTEwe, there were big doings afoot, none of which had to do with the dues-paying membersheep. There were many meetings behind closed doors, accompanied by whispers and furtive glances. Many of the leadersheep were seen entering and leaving their offices at strange hours of the day and night. Individuals who had never carried so much as a paper clip before were now observed lugging bulky leather briefcases and tote bags back and forth.

Once upon a time, the bags were lighter when they came in, and much heavier when the leadersheep carried them out again. Now, however, it was the opposite: many of the field drips, hangers-on, and triple-dippers could hardly drag the bags into their offices.

Scott Skeptic, journalism teacher-in-exile, began taking notes. He was at the CTEwe offices doing research work, and, amazingly enough, the leadersheep were so intent upon their own activities that they simply ignored him. It was perfect.

There were many oddities. It seemed that lots of leadersheep were wearing casts, slings, splints or bandages on their feet, ankles, elbows or wrists; some had neck braces as accessories for their designer duds.

Scott sought out a new-looking recruit and asked what had happened.

Once upon a time, as the leadersheep, the field drips, and the triple-dippers were gathered around the money trough, someone mentioned the three deadly initials followed by the five deadly letters. It was never established exactly who said it; the effect was devastating nonetheless.

As soon as they heard “IRS audit”, everyone began scrambling around in a mad stampede, which is where many injuries were incurred. Of course, those like Pammy Pretty were at a distinct disadvantage when trying to run in Manolo Blaaahniks or Jimmy Choos—

“Those are fancy women’s shoes, sir,” said the new-looking recruit in response to Scott’s quizzical expression. “Very expensive and, in my opinion, highly impractical.”

—but of course, the advantage was theirs when they just stopped and stomped with their stiletto heels. Which is where many of the puncture wounds were sustained. There was total panic for several minutes, until Pammy put her foot down. Again. Right on the left foot of Teddy, the Obsequious Toady, who had been following her around whining “Whatarewegonnado?” over and over.

“FREEZE!!” she shrieked. It worked. Everyone stopped where they were, like statues. That was when a lot of the neck injuries occurred, what with whiplash from following, or being followed, too closely.

There was calm for a while. It was quiet except for the occasional crash of some expensive decorative object that had been dislodged during the disruption.

“There will be a meeting in the conference room in fifteen minutes,” announced Pammy. “We need to talk.”

Scott was still anonymous amidst the chattering crowd. He lurked unobtrusively in the back, sipping his coffee. Soon the leadersheep entered and everyone sat down.

“OK. Questions and concerns,” announced Pammy, who was, as ewesual, clearly in charge. “And before you begin, let’s calm down. Ted, take notes.’

Ted was hobbling along in great pain. “I’m not the secretary,” he whined.

“No, you’re not,” she concurred. “You’re also not the president. Just do what I tell you.”

“But—”

“Do it or I’ll step on your other foot,” she hissed. “Now,” she began. “The biggest problem is going to be that old bugaboo, expense accounts. As I have told you time and time again, you need receipts to back up any deductible expenses. It’s up to the IRS auditor as to what is allowed and what isn’t, but if you don’t have a receipt—”

“—Forget about it,” said Ted.

“Now let us all remain calm, and let us all KEEP QUIET,” she lectured, “because we certainly don’t want any of our enemies, like that evil Debbie, finding out about this and using it to our disadvantage.”

She looked around the room, searching for spies, but passed right over Scott, luckily, once again.

“And if, by some strange happenstance, this does become public knowledge, just remember that an audit does not imply any wrongdoing.”

Everyone was just sitting there, staring at her.

“Repeat after me,” she demanded. “An audit does not imply any wrongdoing.”

They all repeated the new mantra several times. Pammy smiled and said “Very good. If I find out that anyone here leaked this to the news media, you will be excruciatingly sorry. GOT IT??”

Everyone nodded in agreement and began to quietly file out of the conference room, heading for their own cubicles, offices, or suites, as their particular position required.

“Wait!!” she added. “There is one other little item for consideration,” she said. “I’m sure some of you claimed deductions for office necessities. You better start bringing those things back here, just in case someone comes looking for them,” she added. She was really angry, because now she had to return her diamond-encrusted stapler. It was one of her favorite things.

It was an “ah ha” moment for Scott.

Once upon a time, it was a good thing that the leadersheep and staff of the CTEwe had nothing else to do, like provide services to their dues-paying membersheep, since they had a lot of work ahead of them, and a short time in which to create, invent, and/or copy the pertinent papers.

And so it came to pass later that week that the Chicago Fire Department was called in to extinguish a series of unusual fires.

“Gee,” more than one fireman was heard to comment, “ I didn’t know that copying machines could melt like that. And then to set the rugs on fire. Wow.”

Pammy was furious. The last thing she wanted or needed was media attention at a midnight fire in the Merchandise Maart. She blatantly blamed a faulty ventilation system as she momentarily contemplated setting the entire building on fire, thereby completely destroying all the evidence.

Things were clearer the next morning. Once upon a time, the CTEwe leadersheep realized that their munificent pensions might be all they had in their collective old age, and they had to rethink their previous position on bargaining it away in order to bribe the membersheep into accepting another crummy contract. It was a dilemma.

One thing was certain, however. Chicago was a much safer place. Not for the rioting high school students, of course. For ducks.

In the midst of all sorts of urban unrest, the city council had finally passed an ordinance making it illegal to buy, sell or serve foie gras. Some people said “huh?”

“Oh, I see,” agreed Scott and Millicent and Ewenice.

“O.I.C.”