Class Clown by @breeendaaan


“Good morning class,” the teacher smiled as the students filed into the room.

“Good morning Mr. Stephenson,” the students returned in unison.

“Good morning you big dumb idiot,” I said, smirking. The kids stifled their chuckles. Whispers of “Oh my god, did you hear that?” could be heard throughout the room.

Mr. Stephenson was furious. “Excuse me?” he said angrily. Big mistake buddy. I was just getting started.

“Hey, why don’t you go back to Dorkville,” I said. “Also, you look like a big anteater.” I had no idea what an anteater looked like, but when you’re the funniest kid in the history of Elmer Junior High, you’ve gotta do some improvising. Yep, I was the class clown. I was on track to be the best of all time.

That is, until she showed up.

The classroom door swung open, and a girl in a big sun hat entered. Damn, that’s a funny hat, I thought. But I had no idea what I was in for.

“Is this the wrong room?” the girl inquired politely. “Judging by that teacher, it looks like I’m at the goofus convention.”

Instant howls. Kids were on the floor in stitches. I have to admit, even I chuckled a bit.

The mystery girl approached a desk. “Who built this desk?” she mused. “A carpenter who’s bad at his job?”

You’ve never heard laughter like this. A vivacious roar enveloped the room.

The girl strode over to the coat hooks. “The 1700s called,” she snorted, gesturing to the line of jackets. “They want their coats back.”

Everyone was in hysterics, except for me. What was she talking about? That coat thing didn’t make any sense. It didn’t matter; the kids were still howling.

The girl studied a boy’s pencil case. “Nice pencil case,” she said. “I had the same one…back in the 1700s.”

The kids exploded into laugher, but I grew more confused. What did that even mean?

The girl headed for the blackboard. “What’s with all this math?” she said. “Looks like it’s from the 1700s.”

What the hell? Who was this weird girl?

By this time, every kid had peed their pants. No, I’m not talking majority. Literally every kid. Even Mr. Stephenson. I realised that laughter levels were getting out of hand. Soon, people would started coughing up blood. Comedy can go too far.

The next joke happened in slow-motion. Her voice boomed in a low, sluggish register. I saw her mouth form the words, “I remember when those shoes were cool.” I knew I had to act immediately.

I pulled out the glazed ham that I store in my backpack for emergencies like this. I watched her mouth twist into the dreaded shape, the shape that would expel the haunting word: 1700s. I clutched the ham, ignoring the sweat beading on my brow. With all my might, I launched the ham right at her face.

The girl was catapulted backward, right out the door. I darted over to the doorway, slammed the door, and locked it with a sigh of relief.

My classmates and embarrassed teacher caught their breath, pretending not to notice their urine-soaked trousers. On that day, I became something more than the class clown.

I became the class hero.

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