Schooled 4.0

by Deena Bright

This might make you mad. I kind of pride myself on the fact that I’ve never seen Star Wars. I’m not even really sure why. I do know who Yoda is—that is why I referred to him. I think Yoda’s sort of cute, like E.T. I thought about maybe making a promise to you that I would introduce my sons to it, but I don’t even really want to do that.

  Dear Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee (Playwrights of Inherit the Wind):

  Hey readers, you really should read this play. It’s only like 110 pages; it would take you a little over an hour to read it. It’s very clever, witty, and rather interestingly educational. I say, “give it a go.” Mr. Lee, my students think you were in the Civil War. They don’t understand that you were in a different century. History isn’t their strength. I was impressed though that you were from Ohio. Go Bucks! michigan still sucks. (Always a good time to remind people that the “team up North” blows donkeys.)

  Dear Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel (Creators of Superman):

  Nice work, there is nothing better than the geeky boy-gone-super stud. Am I right, readers? Give me some of that! Also, the first penis I ever saw was in the Superman movie I saw as a kid. It was on a baby! Strange that I remember that. It wasn’t long after that I saw another penis on Porky’s. Remember, my parents were whackos.

  Dear David Mickey Evans (Writer of The Sandlot):

  Holy Fuck, Benny “the Jet” Rodriquez was hot. I Googled him, and he is still pretty hot. My kids love your movie. Anything baseball and I am guaranteed 90 minutes of peace and quiet. Thank you Mr. Evans.

  Dear Roseanne Barr and Matt Williams (Creators of Roseanne):

  I wanted to be Darlene. She was the best character. I loved how she belittled Becky. I’d say that Darlene was and probably still is one of my all-time favorite characters. She cracked my shit up. And Roseanne, that last episode, the finale, superb. Actually, right now, just thinking about it, I could cry. It was so good. Thank you.

  Dear Spark Notes:

  What’s your deal? Why do you have to be so long? I’m just trying to get some kids to pass tests here. Help out a little, would ya? I can’t do this all by myself for fuck’s sake.

  Dear John Hughes (Genius writer of The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off):

  John Hughes = Screenplay Perfection (Per-fuck-tion)

  There is no more to say about that. We miss your movies, your wit, and your overall existence. You made movies enjoyable, worthy of a night out. Thank you for being a part of my childhood and adolescence.

  Dear Daniel Waters (Writer of Heathers):

  Heathers was the first movie that I remember “getting,” meaning I understood the message without having to ask someone. It made me feel smart. Oh, and guess what? Shannen Doherty was in it. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. But seriously, what happened to Christian Slater? He was so hot with his sexy, raspy voice.

  Dear Robertson Family (stars of Duck Dynasty):

  I’ve tried. I have really tried. My husband adores you, worships you. I just don’t get it. I’m sorry. We’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one. I’m just not feeling ya. I wish you the best; you obviously don’t need it. You’ve got the Midas touch. Congratulations.

  Dear Jack Dorsey (Creator of Twitter):

  I’m getting better at you. People still don’t follow me. I guess I’m not going anywhere all that exciting. My tweets are never “favorited” or “retweeted.” I lose followers all the time. If Twitter were high school, then I’d be the geek in the corner, reading a book. Hell yeah! Love readers.

  Add on for the rewrite of the book: My twitter is @angelisaauthor FOLLOW ME!

  Chad Hurley, Jawed Kim, and Steve Chen (Founders of YouTube):

  My God, you three certainly have the market on how to entertain teenagers. Now, if you can turn your creation into well-thought out academic lesson plans, then we would be in business. My students are constantly on YouTube, asking me if I’ve seen such and such video. I marvel at your ability to engage and interest the adolescents of this world; Lord knows, I can’t. Nice work, young gentlemen.

  Now readers, if you got this far, then you must give a few cruds about my opinion. You have to YouTube “Epic Hurdle Fails.” My students had me crying; I was laughing so hard. I also like “Little Girl Plays with Dead Squirrel.” They are both hysterical. Granted, I think they are the only two videos I’ve ever watched, but give them a shot. Giggle a bit; make yourself smile today.

  Dear Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock (Initial members of the group “Air Supply”):

  I would never have gotten through my 6th grade breakup if it weren’t for you. I listened to your greatest hits album over and over again until I was drained of all my tears. When Sirius Satellite Radio plays one of your songs on its Love station, I’m in all my glory. You just get me.

  Richard Simmons:

  You crack my shit up. I’m serious. Whenever you’re on Howard Stern, I’m rolling. I was so excited to see you on General Hospital again last year for the Nurses’ Ball, battling it out with Lucy Coe, yet again. It made my day. I even cried a little bit. You’re a pretty cool dude.

  Mr. Big (Writer of “To Be With You”):

  It’s such a good song. What happened to you? I say, “Make that almighty comeback.” I’ll be the president of your fan club.

  Dear Harold Butler (Founder of Denny’s restaurants):

  Well, I’m sitting at Denny’s right now, writing my little heart out. Your “Moons Over My Hammy” is a sublime breakfast sandwich. It just melts in your mouth. My best friend and I used to frequent your establishment every time one of us was down, to just sit for hours and talk it out. Many of our breakups and heartache were sorted out within the walls of your restaurant. Denny’s is our house of therapy and recovery.

  Dear Victoria Beckham “Posh Spice,” Melanie Brown “Scary Spice,” Emma Bunton “Baby Spice,” Melanie Chisholm “Sporty Spice,” and Gerri Halliwell “Ginger Spice” (The members of TheSpice Girls):

  Picture it: 1997 Cleveland, Ohio, center court of a Cavs game, and Deena Bright gets hypnotized during halftime. I was in the middle of the floor, alone, telling everyone “What I want, what I really really want.” Then I was a jackhammer, and vibrated and jumped all over the court. Good times.

  Dear Coca~Cola (Owners of the Fuze beverage):

  When I was pregnant, I searched high and low for something to drink, something that tasted good, but wasn’t loaded with caffeine and other fetus-fucking-up poisons. Finally, I found the Fuze. Thank you so much for that little slice of Heaven, when alcohol, Diet Coke, caffeine, and Sweet-n-Low were completely out of the question. One can only tolerate water for so long. Well, I guess water’s pretty good for you, and you can tolerate it a great deal. But, who the Hell wants to drink water when everyone is slurping down wine or margaritas?

  Dear C.S. Lewis (Author of the Narnia series):

  Your vivid descriptions make the scenes come to life, giving the reader an ample amount of visual imagery. You’re an incredible writer and should be praised and honored for your work. You already have been? Not by me! So, here it is: You are superb. Be proud of you work.

  Dear David Crane and Marta Kauffman (Creators of the television show Friends):

  I will stop what I’m doing, sit down, and just kick it every time I stumble upon a Friends repeat on TBS. It is such a great show; the characterization is remarkable. I still enjoy it so much—even though I’ve seen every episode numerous times.

  Everyone has a favorite episode. Here’s mine:

  I love love loved the episode when they are all trying to figure out who seduced whom when Ross got Rachel pregnant, and Rachel swore over and over again that Ross seduced her. I loved that Ross had it on tape, and she told the “sure thing story.” It was hysterical. I was never a big Rachel fan, so I liked that she looked like a dumbass. One time, on Howard Stern, she (Jennifer Anniston) was rude to Stuttering John and wouldn’t answer his questions. I stopped liking her then. By “not liking her,” I mean, I just told people I didn’t
like her. I still watched every episode of Friends, and I still see every movie she’s ever filmed. Man, I loved The Break Up; I cried through that entire movie, starting with when he didn’t pick up the lemons.

  Dear Jeremy Leven (Writer of Don Juan DeMarco):

  Fucking loved your movie! I loved the theme and plot, but what put me over the top was how delicious Johnny Depp was throughout the entire movie. Depp fans, if you have not seen this movie, then you’ve certainly missed THE movie he is the sexiest in. Get it now! Now! Stop reading and go get it.

  Dear David Hertz (Writer of the movie, American Pie):

  Loved all the American Pie movies. They crack me up. I’m a big fan of high school, stupid comedies. They give me great joy and laughter. Every year during Romeo and Juliet, I have to teach the term, foil. Foils are two characters with opposing personalities, not enemies, but with different types of characterization. Mercutio is Romeo’s foil. Romeo takes love seriously, while Mercutio does not. I use Stifler and Finch as examples of foils. Luckily, the CLEAN versions are on television a lot, so my freshmen have seen it. Thank you for being something I can use in my classroom, even if it is just a reference.

  Dear Nicholas Sparks (Writer of The Notebook and every other romance novel that leaves the reader in a giant puddle of heart-breaking tears):

  My favorite book of all time is Beach Music, by Pat Conroy. (Readers, you should totally read that shit up.) I love that book. It’s wonderful. Anyway, after I read it, no other books could compare. For the first time ever in my life, I experienced READER’S BLOCK. I couldn’t get into anything else. Then, my friend said, “You should read The Notebook.” Oh thank you, Mr. Sparks for curing my reader’s block. It was the worst thing ever. Your books wreck me, but I love being wrecked. Thank you.

  I would like to add something though, since I’m being honest. Now, I loved The Notebook; I truly did. But when I start analyzing it, I get a little mad at myself for liking it. I don’t like to condone cheating; it totally pisses me off. Ali was cheating on her fiancé when she was hooking up with Noah. We can’t forget that.

  Dear Larry Page and Sergey Brin (Founders of Google):

  I want to start by saying that I’m not that old. However, I seriously cannot remember a time when you weren’t around. Maybe, it’s because I don’t want to remember a time when you weren’t around. My world is a better, easier, more wonderful place, because you created Google. I’m not sure where I’d be without you. I’m serious. I certainly know that this particular “Accolades” section of my book wouldn’t exist. How in the world would I know any of this stuff? I wouldn’t, and I most definitely wouldn’t look any of this crap up if it weren’t so fucking easy. So yeah, thanks for making the lazy not seem so lazy. You rock! And another thing, I love when you change the letters of the word, Google, on the sign in page. So clever. But I do NOT like when I have to click something to make the Google sign show up or move.

  Side note: According to my research on Google, it is very difficult to become a spy (CIA agent). Not only do they want above a 3.5 grade point average, but they also want you to know two foreign languages and stay squeaky clean. No drugs. No alcohol. Nothing.

  Dear Anthony Ray (aka: Sir Mix-A-Lot):

  Totally timeless song! “Baby Got Back” will never get old or run its course. When the song starts, my head automatically just starts bobbing around. It really happens to everyone. I dare anyone to listen to that song without a bee-bopping head, tapping foot, and smile on their face. It’s an automatic mood-booster. Who needs uppers when you’ve got “Baby Got Back?”

  Dear Urban Meyer:

  O-H…

  I loved Tressel; he has a special place in my heart. But dude, you’re rocking that football team. To go undefeated when a bowl game isn’t at stake is a huge, I mean huge, accomplishment. Keep up the good work, and I’ll happily allow you to continue to wear scarlet and gray. I-O

  Dear Cleveland Indians:

  My first Tribe obsession was Franklin Gutierrez (look him up girls). Holy hotness on a skillet people! Then, after you Cleveland bastards traded him, I followed the drool and went along with the rest of world to obsess over Grady Sizemore. I mean, how could I not? But now, now, I am overjoyed once again. Thank you Cleveland for my beautiful, spunky, and charismatic Nick Swisher. Damn, love that guy. And he’s a Buckeye fan. What more could I really want?

  Dear Cedar Point:

  You are the roller coast! Love me some roller coasters and upside downy rides! When I walk through that gate, I’m 10-years-old again. Thank you for giving me Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth.

  Dear Kate Spade:

  I love you. I got over my Coach obsession. It’s now you. I dig all of my Kate Spade bags and accessories. We should be best friends, so you can give me things for free. What do you think?

  Dear Gordon Gee:

  Thanks for my degree! I truly appreciate it. Since it’s so hard to get into Ohio State now, I have this fear that one day you’re going to knock on my door and revoke my degree. Back when I went to school there, I just needed a pulse to get in. Now, to get in, you can’t even miss a question on your Kindergarten entrance exam. Please don’t take my degree back. I kind of need it.

  Dear Walter Harrison:

  So University of Hartford, huh? Alright, nice work. I mean, what do I know about you? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. If you’re doing well, then keep it up. If you suck, then get your head in the game and get to it.

  Dear NFL:

  What can we do about the Browns? Help us out. Throw us a bone.

  Add on for the rewrite of the book: Thank you for Johnny Manziel. We’ll see what he can do.

  Dear Bruce Joel Rubin (Writer of Ghost):

  Love story? Are you freaking kidding me? I was scared out of my mind. I had diarrhea all night long. It was ridiculous. No way! Demi and Patrick were hot and all that, but it was a terrifying movie.

  Dear John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and Thomas Paine (Our forefathers who wrote The U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights):

  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or of the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” First Amendment to the Constitution

  You fucking rock! Thank you for writing that little piece of literary genius. I shall forever be indebted to your intellectual superiority. Proud to be an American!

  JESUS CHRIST, I’D rather cut my throat with a rusty hatchet than let my best friend marry a fuck-tart, a fuck-tart without icing, no less. But what am I doing? I’m getting ready to meet her at the honeymoon suite at the Ritz Carlton in Cleveland to spend the night with her before her fairy tale wedding. God, I wish the governor, that douchebag, would call in a pardon to delay her death sentence. That’s what it is I tell you! Trust me, if Janelle marries Marcus, then it will be the death of her.

  And probably me, too.

  He’s poison. Toxic poison. Deadly toxic poison.

  Leaving the restaurant, my phone rings. It stops ringing before I can get it out of my giant bag of wedding shit. I immediately dial Janelle’s number back. “What’s up, whore?” I ask.

  “Are you coming?” she asks, frantically.

  “Asshole, you left fifteen minutes ago. I’m leaving the restaurant now. I had to run back here to get my bag of shit off the table.”

  “Well hurry! And bring more alcohol,” she commands, before hanging up on me.

  “Sure thing,” I say, knowing she’s no longer on the line. She probably needs to be nearly comatose to think that marrying this bastard is a good idea.

  Rummaging through my bag, a sweaty hand touches my shoulder. “What’s your hurry, Star-Queen?”

  “Jesus Marcus, what the fuck are you doing lurking in the dark in the parking lot? And stop fucking calling me that. It’s Charlene for fuck’s sake,” I yell, shrugging his balmy hand off my shoulder.

&n
bsp; “But baby, you’re bright royalty to me,” Marcus says, slurring his words. Will this fuck-tart ever stop hitting on me? Every single time I’ve told Janelle that he’s a slime ball and is constantly coming on to any chick with a vag (which is all chicks), she just tells me that he’s “harmless” and that’s “just his personality.”

  Yeah, his personality as a dirt-ball in a designer suit.

  “Do you need me to call you a cab?” I ask, rolling my eyes, really wishing he’d crash his car into a pole and die tonight. I know that would devastate Janelle, but sooner or later he’s going to devastate her anyway. I say let’s just wrap his creepy body around a telephone pole now and call it a day.

  “Why don’t you just take me home?” he asks, wrapping his arm around my waist. “And maybe, since I know you’re so generous and giving, you could give me one of your infamous blowies before the chapel I go-ey?”

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

  “Come on Char, you blew my entire fraternity,” he whispers heavily in my ear. “Every one of my brothers got to enjoy that oral vacuum of yours. How about you let me take that Hoover for a spin?”

  I will kill this asshole with my bare hands. Nobody would care either—not one person would give two shits about it. God, he’s such a prick. If I had a knife, I’d castrate him right now and put everyone out of their misery.

  Or I could…

  “Actually Marcus,” I say, closing the gap between us, “you’re right. If I would’ve met you first, then I would’ve been able to take you for a little test drive, before Nelle snatched you up all for herself. Who knows, I might even have been the woman meeting you at the end of that aisle tomorrow?”