THE MAKING OF A HUMAN CENTIPEDE

I feel like I’m teaching K through 8 in a one-room schoolhouse, except corporal punishment isn’t allowed and video cameras monitor human movement. I certainly wouldn’t want to break the “use of force” continuum. I can’t just crack someone with a yardstick without first making a split second decision as to the severity of the infraction and what repercussions I might face.

Earlier this week I kicked two gangbangers out of the school building for continously using the drinking fountain . . . together . . . concurrently. They’re bunkies; they have all sorts of time for kibitzing. I stepped into the hallway and said, “ID cards, gentlemen.”

“What for?” They asked out of sync.

I stood in silence, held my ground, the hallway camera encased in a tinted-black turret, (hopefully pointed in my direction). I extended my hand. They acquiesced.

As I walked the corridor toward the corrections officer’s podium, one of them said, “You MOTHER F#@K$nG CRACKER!!!”

“Is that the best you can do?” I asked midstride.

I gave their ID cards to the corrections officer on duty and said, “They can whisper sweet nothings to each other back in their cell.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

More meat for the human centipede, I thought. More meat.