by Nick Osaada

Created on: December 02, 2008

I have one, and ONLY one, revenge fantasy. Mind, it took me several years to come up with it, so please be kind.

It is, admittedly, a rather difficult fantasy to realize. Especially considering that the first part of it involves me inventing a time machine. I'm told this is something at which modern science has yet to succeed. Still, I did say this was a fantasy, yes? Anyway, after I invent my time machine, I am going to transfer my consciousness back in time to fifth grade; specifically to Mrs. Melody's class. Why fifth, you ask? If you haven't lost interest already, allow me to explain.

You see, age ten to eleven is what I refer to as the blossoming of sarcasm. Kids younger than that definitely comprehend sarcasm and try clumsily to implement it whenever possible, but kids right at that age live and breathe it. If you're acquainted with a kid that age or have seen one on TV, you know what I mean. Suppose Mom and Dad wrongly give their child a toy he considers way below his maturity level. A seven or eight-year-old might cry or become angry; he will be hurt that you consider him a mere toddler. A child on the cusp of the Sarcasm Age might say:

"Oh, great job, guys. Just fantastic. I was just thinking this morning about how much me and my buddies in the fifth grade wanted a light-up ninja sword. Maybe we'll use it while we're playing house, although it might get dirty when we dribble our mashed bananas all over ourselves. I don't suppose you got me a matching bib?"

So, the thing is, I had these terrible teachers during the Sarcasm Age; Mrs. Melody was head and shoulders above them all. Not terrible in the sense that they didn't know anything. No, they were terrible in the sense that they were well aware of the Sarcasm Age and took full advantage of our unwilling obedience to them to mock us at every turn. Mrs. Melody was the best at it.

If I were to misbehave and then attempt to cover it up, she was in her element. Striking a pose, one hand on hip and head tilted to the side, Mrs. Melody would squint at me and ask, "Do you think I'm stupid, young man?"

Oh, if I could only describe the pain that the sarcasm section of my brain suffered at this point! She could certainly have phrased it any other way had she wanted to. Anything would have been better than the psychological torture of having a wonderfully attractive opening placed right before you and being forbidden to step through it!

Then of course, there was, "You forgot your homework? Would you forget your pants

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