Hummus and Flat Bread

Middle School.

Hot sun, sweltering classrooms. Lots of crunchy granola types in varying degrees of bourgeois rebellion.

Hummus had a sharp mind. Like me tries to stay away from the gossip mongers in the lunchroom. Hummus hates the lunchlady too.

Flat Bread runs one of the SDC rooms.

Now, I'm an accepting type. Let your freak flag fly, right?
I don't care what you shave or don't shave, as long as I keep it out of MY mouth, do as you wish. I'm cool with natural scent. I hate perfume and sympathize with the chemically sensitive sometimes.

But GOD DAMMIT!

Crusty Punks don't belong in the classroom. Or, rather, Crusty Hippies don't.

Flat Bread was so impressed with Hummus' retro thing that she adopted a bit more of the birkenstock thing. Skimpy summer dresses, no sleeves, no deodorant, oh no.

She's one of those teachers, likes to get down to the students level, "to communicate" on their level, as she says.

So one day I'm in Flat Breads classroom and she is leaning over a students shoulder, nipple resting on his collarbone. That was the first thing I noticed. When I'm closer it hits me. That smell. Like Maude after a roofing job in Tucson.

Fight the Power, Not the Shower!

Just cause the government stinks, doesn't mean you have to.

For her birthday Hummus got her one of those crystal stick deodorants. Wonder if she ever used it.

Poor fucking kids.