The Chocolate Whore

The story so delicately woven by Mr. CE -- that's short for CE - below me brings about a recollection of a similar ordeal I once experienced.

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon -- nay, hellacious. Just kidding, it was fucking fine. On my lap was a novel -- a novel amongst novels, The Chocolate War. On the television in front of me, a ballgame. Not just any ballgame, but game 3 of the 2003 ALCS, known thereafter as Zimmer Takes a Digger in my very household. At a crossroads, I was surely at -- do I finish reading this, this book, as I was tasked to? Or do I relax and take in the spectacle of Major League Baseball? Surely there would be a test awaiting me come Monday morn, dare I put off such a deed? I decided that I would read on, for the time, to see if my interest would be recaptured.

"Okay, this is -- what the fuck?" Before my unbelieving eyes, the character whose exploits I was reading about turned over in bed and started pleasuring himself. "What ho?" I bellowed. "This is the curriculum I, a 10th grade student, am forced to read about?"

Still, I perservered, and slowly and surely I continued reading. Through the sexual situations and the unlikely plot developments, two things became certain to me. One, every high school student apparently has a nickname befitting of their physical appearance or personality. Two, bullies hate being caught masturbating in a school bathroom. I'm not kidding, there was more self pleasuring in this book than Onslaught Six's bedroom.

When all was said and done, I let out a sight of belief. "Benjamin," I told myself. "I'm going to ace this test, or my name isn't Blitzen Halloway."

Come Monday, my suspicions proved correct, as my English class was assaulted with a test on The Chocolate War. I had just subjected myself to a story that made me feel more awkward reading it than Jaleel White must have felt when he realized that he's never going to be known as anything more than Steve Urkel for the rest of his life.

I looked down at the test that lay before me. "Haha!" I exclaimed. "That's the ticket!" The first page of the test was unrelentingly easy, but then I flipped over the test paper, in all its crookedly photocopied glory, and my jaw dropped.

"Why was Emile angry?"

What? How vague, he was a bully, for cryin' out loud, he was always fumin'! Figuring she was referring to something relevent to the plot, I jotted down -- ashamed of myself -- "He was caught masturbating."

We graded the tests that very same period. Old Mrs. O was into having us swap our papers and having other students correct it, which pissed me off, because I'd rather have a blind man correct my tests than a peer. I glanced over and an attractive dame was selected to bear witness to my paper.

5 minutes later, we arrived at the question at hand. "Why was Emile angry?"

"He was photographed."

With that, the girl burst out laughing at what she surely saw, and I felt like an ass. Yeah, a real dweeb!

Jesus Christ, I hate teachers who have vaguely worded tests and act as if it's your fault for not knowing what the hell they mean.