The last time I tell someone to stick it up the wazoo

The last time I tell someone to stick it up the Wazoo

The first time I can remember telling someone to stick it up his or her wazoo was when I was nine. The teacher, Miss Whatsherface, told me I had to step away and not participate in sports' day after I tried to defend a fellow student who was being bullied. Believing strongly that I was unfairly treated pushed me to do it. I told Miss Whatsherface to stick sports' day up her wazoo. That was that, the first time of significance I can remember being so bold and stupid.

The second time I told someone to stick it up the wazoo was when I was eleven and playing baseball. I was at bat. There were no strikes against me, three balls.  I then proceeded to watch in slow motion three strikes hit the catcher's mitt. I didn't even swing the bat, or even take it off my shoulder for that matter. I figured the bum on the mound couldn't possibly throw three strikes in a row by me, but he did, (according to the umpire) and I was out. I told the umpire to stick it up his wazoo. He then kicked me out of the game in the most demonstrative way that umpire's do- 'you're outta here.' It wasn't the umpire’s fault I didn't swing the bat. Even if they weren't strikes I could have hit them. Poor ump, he was just trying to make some extra cash, and he probably figured umpiring baseball matches was a good way.  

The third time I told someone to stick it up his or her wazoo was in the school library.  I remember how old I was because I remember the school. I was fourteen.  In this particular instance I was flipping through magazines in the school library.  They had a fantastic collection. I particularly liked reading about sports.  Well, we used to steal quite a few of the magazines. We’d cut the pictures out and hang them on our bedroom walls. The librarian soon cottoned on to what we were doing in the magazine aisle, and that quite a few of the back catalogue were missing. Of course I denied everything when she accused me. Of course I didn't like that she was accusing me and fought my corner very well, until I made the mistake.  I was almost out the door when she said, ‘and do you have anything more to say for yourself, young man?  I did, of course, but I hesitated for maximum effect.  

‘Yeah, lady- stick it up your wazoo!’ 

The fourth time I told someone to stick it up his or her wazoo was when I was seventeen. This time I was playing basketball and the coach and I didn't get along.  He was a short guy with a short guy's complex. What was he doing coaching basketball?  If he knew what he was talking about I would have given him some slack for being a midget, but no; he didn't know anything about basketball. He was a Golden Gloves boxer; rumour had it. He was also a real hot head so we were bound to butt them together sooner or later.  Well we were into the first quarter of the game, and I was riding the pine.  I did not like riding the pine, so after a while, as the other team piled on the points, I got angry just sitting there watching my team lose.  So it was a hopeless situation and I did the only thing I could think of- leave, walk out, get up and go.  I was on my way out, passed the parents, cheerleaders, etc. I could hear the whispers...‘Where is he going? He can’t do that.  Mr. Shorty is going to kill him.  He was a Golden Gloves boxer, you know.’  I was almost out of there when my older brother grabbed me. He was in the stands behind the cheerleaders but he caught me at the door underneath the bleachers. ‘Where are you going?’ he said. ‘I'm going home,’ I said. ‘You can’t just leave in the middle of a game,’ he replied. He reasoned with me there under the bleachers and talked some sense into me and got me to sneak back in and make it look like I just needed to have a wee or take a crap.  Coach Shorty knew better, plus I didn't get his permission. It was written on my face- my hatred for his stupid military mind games. Oddly enough (he was an odd man); he put me right in the game as soon as I came back from my supposed crap. I played okay but I wasn't in there long enough to break a sweat before the first half whistle blew and a fifteen minute break. Shorty didn't say anything at half time about me walking off but he had that look on his face. Second half, same old story, back riding the pine until the end of the game we lost by twenty something points. After the game we shook hands with the other team and made our way to the dressing rooms.  Shorty made his move, ‘why did you walk out during the game without permission?’ I couldn't resist, ‘stick it up your wazoo, Shorty.’  He turned bright red.  He had a white albino bonnet which made him look really funny when he was angry because it accentuated his bright red face. God, I hated that man. I walked into the dressing room with Shorty breathing down my neck.  He let rip as soon as I pushed the doors open. ‘That’s it. You’re through. You’re not going to college. I will see to it that don't get accepted nowhere and drive a garbage truck the rest of your life. You’re not going anywhere in life. You are a loser.’ He got right up in my face. Nobody told Shorty shove it up his wazoo.  But I did, and I did it again and again and again and there was nothing he could do about it but turn the brightest red you've ever seen.  I don’t know what exactly I said to him but I really let rip with the expletives and he was firing them back at me too, not very professional behaviour for a teacher or coach. He even had his fists clenched and cocked but he knew he couldn't hit me as much as he wanted to. I really made him look like the fool he was. He would have been finished, a bum, teaching career over in one swift punch.  He should have been finished anyway but he got away with it because I didn't push the issue. 

There was a time when someone told me to stick it up my wazoo, except I was the teacher this time, in London, out by Heathrow Airport. A student was goofing off instead of completing the assignment clearly displayed in my lousy handwriting on the whiteboard behind where I sat at my desk grading papers. I asked the student to come to my desk so I could look at his exercise book- no date, no description of how Hitler’s rise impacted the rest of Europe, no attempt at reading the passage in the text book. Nada.  I told this student to go back to his desk and get to work or he would be spending his lunchtime with me, and that I'm very boring and he would much rather be outside with his friends. He went back to his desk after making a lame promise. Ten minutes later I called him back up to my desk- same thing. Nada- blank piece of paper except for a penis and two testicles in the bottom corner. I told him he would be spending fifteen minutes at lunch with Mr. Boring to make up for the time he had wasted so far. He wasn't happy, but he walked back to his desk and started writing furiously knowing the bell would ring in a couple of minutes. After the bell rang he came back to my desk and presented to me his work. He was very proud of himself. Students were coming and going from the classroom and I was preparing my next lesson. I looked over his last ditch effort. It was an abortion, an embarrassment to mankind.  I told him that it’s not a race, that he needs to take his time when he is composing his sentences, that he needs to use the whole lesson to complete his work, not just the last three minutes. He said he took his time, why did I think it took him so long to complete? Some of these students think you were born yesterday. I told him that it’s not about speed or quantity but quality. I also called him lazy. He didn't like that. Nobody called him lazy. I told him to calm down and we could talk about it at lunch time. And you can guess what he told me to do.  

'Stick it up your wazoo, you Yankee prick!!!!'     

I remember the fifth time I told someone to stick it up his or her wazoo. I was fourteen. I was crossing the street and a car slammed on the brakes.  The driver then honked in my face so I flipped him the bird. How dare he ride down the road whilst I was crossing it? Was he blind or something? He got out of the car and approached me standing in front of his car with my bird still erect. ‘What’s wrong with you, kid?’ I didn't say anything. I held my ground and turned to him holding the flipped bird in front of his face. Luckily, he was smart enough not to whack a fourteen year old idiot, even though I did deserve it. We were sort of rowdy back then. We didn't really have any rules. Dad died when I was eleven so my brothers and I ran a little wild in those years.  We used to bang about the local YMCA and library causing trouble in the years before his death and we continued to do so into our mid teens. We weren't mean or anything, just sinister and cunning in our pursuit of a thrill. We became a little more respectable as we got older. Our rowdy years didn't last too long luckily. The law had cottoned on to us and we had better things to do than cause mischief.  That’s all it really was- mischief. We were bored really and looking for adventure-thrills.  Stealing was a thrill.   Vandalism was a thrill.   I forgot that I had flipped that guy the bird in the middle of the street.  It was my brother that reminded me.  I’d completely forgotten about it until I told him that I was trying to remember all the times I'd told someone to stick it up his or her wazoo and he reminded me of the flipping the bird incident and the Stromboli incident, which occurred around the same time, and did not involve me telling someone to stick it up his or her wazoo, but someone telling me to stick it up my wazoo. 

There used to be a pizzeria across from the Junior school called Stromboli King. They specialised in this unusual Italian speciality, the Stromboli, yet the owners were Chinese. Behind the counter was a very large sign that read: 

What is a Stromboli? 

And a description below, very clearly laid out for the customers:

A Stromboli is a type of turnover (folded pizza) filled with mozzarella, salami, capicola and bresaola and vegetables. 

We walked in everyday after school and waited in line. Stromboli King was very popular after school with all the kids from the Junior School across the street.  It was usually packed. None of the students ever ordered a Stromboli, just a slice of pizza or two. When we got to the counter we would look perturbed as to what to choose from the menu behind the Chinese man.  Inevitably we would ask after much deliberation, ‘what’s a Stromboli?’ and the Chinese man would get annoyed and point at the sign behind him. 'Oh, okay, sorry didn't see the sign.' Then we would order a slice of pizza. At first he didn't mind but after several months he started to get a little fed up with us asking him, ‘hey, what’s a Stromboli?’ One day I walked in and had an extra long deliberation at the counter, I dragged on my decision making process for almost a minute before I finally asked, ‘hey, what’s a Stromboli?’ The Chinese man had enough.  He blew his top. 

‘Go stick it up the wazoo!!! Stick it up the wazoo!!’ he said and chased me out the front door and up the street.  

The last time I told someone to stick it up his or her wazoo happened with my older brother a couple of summers back in France. We were drinking whiskey and talking about growing up. It was early in the evening and the sun had almost set completely. Funny thing is we were talking about Mr. Shorty. My brother was giving me grief about how I shouldn't have quit the basketball team, that I shouldn't have told Mr. Shorty to stick it up his wazoo, that I had an attitude problem when I was a kid, etc. etc. I listened and listened and reasoned and reasoned about how Mr. Shorty was wrong and that I was right to stand up to him, that I was the only one brave enough to stand up to his Nazi regime, and that Mr. Shorty was a bad role model and should never have been a teacher or coach because he was not only bad at both but also highly unprofessional. Well, my brother likes to boar in and I should have just walked away, but instead, I told him to stick it up the wazoo. I stupidly illustrated exactly what he was talking about, that I had an attitude problem. Still. 

And that was the last time I told someone to stick it up the wazoo. I hope it’s the last, I really do.