“I’M THE PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR STUDENT WHOSE PRINCIPAL HAS A FOULER MOUTH THAN MY KID’S.”
Ms. DuBearn is a member of Coconut Grove Elementary’s “Educational Excellence School Advisory Committee”. Her recent email request – about a seemingly tame matter involving an upcoming committee meeting – provoked a rather unsavory and unpalatable response from her kid’s principal, Eva Ravelo, who, according to the Miami Herald, wrote back, tersely:
“Advise her to eat sh– and die.”
Ms. Ravelo spelled out her communique just as it appears here – omitting the last two letters. How tidy. What wasn’t so tidy was that, instead of sending it to her assistant principal – as she intended – she accidentally sent it to DuBearn directly.
Uh-oh. And that, folks, is when the sh– hit the fan.
The email quickly got around to a wider circle of parents and it wasn’t before long when – holy sh–! – the match was lit and the demand for her firing went up the chain of command to the superintendent. It’s no itty-bitty, sh–ty mistake to make to tell off a parent-member of an advisory panel on “educational excellence”. And I’m guessing Ms. Ravelo will be sh–ing in her pants if she has to attend that committee’s next meeting and make amends for all the sh– she’s managed to step into.
Bet she’ll feel like she’s in Sh–sville.
But let he who stoops to fling sh– beware: He may find out the hard way that the ones he flung sh– at can be just as avid sh– flingers as he. This one reckless (and unappetizing) email may boomerang and cost Principal Potty-Mouth her well-paying job.
Then she’ll be sh– out of luck. I reckon it’ll be hard to get another school administrative post with such a black…um… streak on her personnel record.
It’s quite a sh–tty situation when it’s a school principal of all people trotting out the four-letter words. But an elementary school principal? What happens if she’s allowed to remain? Might the schoolkids be awkwardly cordoned off from their own principal lest she be a “corrupting influence” on their innocence?
A Miami-Dade County Public School spokesman was quoted as saying, “As public servants, we are all held to a high degree of professionalism. The behavior…is particularly unbecoming for a public employee.”
Unbecoming, perhaps, but not uncommon. This is South Florida, don’t forget.
Your state and mine essentially told 55,000 Broward residents last week that they, too, could eat sh–.
What they’d rather eat, though, are oranges, grapefruits, lemons, and other of nature’s home-grown from off the citrus trees they once owned and nurtured. But – oh, sh– – that’s no longer possible.
You will recall that Tallahassee declared the Great Citrus Canker War of 1995-2006 and unloosed a whole sh–load of tree killers across the width and breadth of Florida. An army of chainsaws and backhoes descended upon every citrus tree standing within a radius of a canker-infected one. By war’s end, the state had lopped down nearly 900,000 of ‘em before deciding it was a futile fight and throwing in the towel. Two-thirds of the felled trees didn’t even have the canker.
When their trees went, so, too, went a lot of people’s livelihoods. And spleens. The people got mad at the state Department of Agriculture. Mad enough to sue the sh– out of it.
The state initially didn’t want to compensate them even a copper Lincoln cent for their losses, but gave in and paid $55 for each downed tree, throwing in a $100 Walmart voucher for a replacement. How thoughtful. The Ag Department believed it was a “fair” deal.
That didn’t appease the fruit-less. You must think we’ve got sh– for brains, the plaintiffs groused.
So off to court they went to file their class-action suit, as did folks in other counties, including Miami-Dade. Dade’s suit, involving 130,000 residents, will be decided soon.
In its response to the angry masses, the Tallahassee chain saw gang claimed that canker-exposed trees were a “public nuisance having no value.”
The plaintiffs cried, “BULLSH–!”
The state retorted, “No, YOU’RE full of sh–.
And last week, the Broward verdict came down from the The Fourth District Court of Appeal, which ordered the state to pay the plaintiffs over $11 million. The twelve judges were unanimous in siding with the tree owners. The canker eradication war – which may in time come to be known as Florida’s “Vietnam” – was excoriated every which way in the opinion:
“There is substantial competent evidence that healthy, privately owned citrus trees are not harmful or destructive, even though found within 1,900 feet of a tree having citrus canker. There is evidence in the record that the healthy trees taken…had continued to produce the fruit, the juice, the shade, the pleasing aromas, the agreeable vistas — all the virtues for which their owners carefully planted and tended them. There was expert testimony that no study using an acceptable scientific method supports a conclusion that healthy trees so situated will necessarily develop citrus canker or bring trouble or damage to anybody.
That’s some real heavy sh–, now ain’t it?
“It is apparent from the history of this case that [the state] destroyed these privately owned healthy trees not because they were really ‘imminently dangerous’ to anybody but instead to benefit the citrus industry in Florida.”
Take that, you stupid Ag Department sh–s!
The court further declared: “Government has regulatory power for the very purpose of safeguarding (the judges’ emphasis) the rights of citizens, not for destroying them….[I]f government cuts down and burns private property having value, then government has taken it. And if government has taken it, government must pay for it.”
No sh–, Sherlock.
The ruling leaves the state with not only the sap of murdered trees on its hands but also some serious soily sh– on its shoes. (Try repeating that three times, swiftly.)
Despite all this, Tallahassee’s attitude towards these good folks is “Tough sh–!” Recalcitrant to the end, it plans to appeal to the state supreme court.
Not many of us will ever put a used car up for sale, attract a buyer for it, then greet a cadre of FBI agents rapping at our door days later to ask if we might provide an artist’s sketch of the terrorist we sold it to.
That’s exactly what happened to one Connecticut woman a few weeks ago. She’s the one whose Nissan Pathfinder entered notoriety after it was bought by Times Square bombing suspect Faisal Shahzad.
“Hey, I used to drive that SUV before it became famous! When I knew it, it was just your run-of-the-mill clunker. I spilled coffee in that thing all the time. Wiped boogers off under the seat. Even had sex in the cargo hold. Now it’s more famous than I’ll EVER be! Splashed across all the NEWS NETWORKS! On LARRY KING! The star exhibit of a FEDERAL TERRORISM TRIAL! Who’d have thunk it?”
There’s likely a vehicle in each of our pasts that we would have eagerly given away to be blown up by a willing terrorist. I wish one might have been around to take my first car off my hands. It was a Fix It Again Tony. I became acquainted with that acronymic definition only when I had to replace the transmission early on in my ownership.
Now don’t get me wrong: I really loved that little (and we’re talking little) car. In the beginning. For all of the first month that I had it. But I began to fall out of love with it soon after.
I really had my eyes on a beautiful Triumph convertible in my neighborhood, whose allure both tempted and tormented me every day for weeks as I’d come home and see it parked on the street; unfortunately, it wasn’t for sale. Within days, I went out and grabbed the first convertible I could both find in the listings and afford. It was an impulse purchase indeed. Never mind that I couldn’t drive a stick. I learned real quick.
But it was a convertible, as I so wanted my first car to be.
By the end of its life in my care, I doubt any terrorist would have wanted it for even a test explosion.
Osama bin Laden wouldn’t have wanted it (“Stupid infidel! I’ve got camels that are more dependable than that!”).
It’s a new twist on the warning, “Make sure you’ve got clean underwear on when headed to the ER” – NOW we have to be careful that the car we sell on Craigslist doesn’t come back to haunt or embarrass us:
“Ma’am, the FBI crime lab took a carpet sample from the floorboard, examined it under infrared lighting, and wanted us to ask you about a particular stain that was found. Would you be able to account for that stain?”
You might not desire them to go there. Remember, these are probably the same folks who expertly located a certain stain on Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress a while back.
Does this mean we may have to really, really clean our cars before we sell them, making sure to scour every inch and surface with every cleanser we’ve got stashed under our kitchen sinks?
If so, a lot of you are gonna be in a whole sh–load of trouble.