And the man continued to rant at the students.

And the man continued to rant at the students. He was angry. Very angry. For what reason? I did not know. I just sat in the back of the class and watched the teacher complain.

He fired up the 1960's slide projector and showed us bar graphs that ranked his angers. One slide had a clip art man with angry eyebrows. Tenure does this to people. I took notes

& noticed a pattern. He had dates on all his anger rankings - the highest ones were all right around the full moon. I drew a circle around my conclusion & raised my hand. "Can I

go use the little werewolves room--uh, er, the little boys' room?" I asked nervously, hoping no one had heard my slip-up. It took so little to arouse the teacher's ire these days.

The teacher was fit to be tied. Ever since this year started we all had to walk on egg shells. No coughing. No asking to go to the bathroom. The teacher's eyes were bloodshot.

She had developed an allergy to the egg shells that covered the floor and due to backups in both the respiratory and alimentary systems had not been able to have looked at until no

More chickens were hatched. Sir John had counted his chickens before they hatched, ignoring the good advice of the Queen. The eggshell sculpture she made was a readymade recipe for

One must trust the word of the employee behind the chicken counter. But Sir John had not lowered himself to consult with such a meagerly paid employee. This is what happens when

someone gets obsessed with hot-air balloons. "You need to get down from there!" the manager hollered into his megaphone. But Sir John just gave him the bird- down fell the chicken.