Colt Cabana is the funniest man alive , deal with it.
if i owned cabanaramma i wouldn't be sitting hurr .
oh and, say anything own the title


1:35... 1:36... 1:37...

I never thought I would be back here, in fucking school. I hated school, so why would I pick a profession where I would need to be cooped up in one 5 hours a fucking day. Well, I guess this wasn't the profession I picked; it's more like the profession I picked to get me to my real profession. Pro Wrestling.

I guess it's not a bad gig, I can sleep at recess, use all their shit to make gimmicks, scam free coffee and food to take back to the apartment to share with punk n' ace. I really shouldn't complain, people would probably kill to get this job. At least I'm not as bad as punk, sitting in that chemical lab downtown, probably asleep at his desk. He could die, or kill somebody else, but it's all for the love of Wrestling.

1:40. Finally.

Ms. Vaughn. Amazing coincidence that she has the same last name as that teacher from that Adam Sandler movie; Billy Madison (And yes, she is hot. And I may want to touch her hiney in the near future.)

She always walks into the room at 1:40, because the asshole teacher she's walking with this term is an asshole, if I didn't mention it, and makes her clean the room after every class. Asshole. Those hands shouldn't be used for cleaning, they should be used for touching my... I'll stop there.

Let me describe her to you; this woman, good god. She has this long browny blonde hair, and these big brown eyes and these Angelina Jolie lips, and her body. Wow. She's a native Chicago-ian, and the whole reason she's working here is to earn enough money to become a social worker.

How could I possibly know all this without ever talking to her you ask? Well, I've become very fond of the receptionist here, Edna. She'll give me a little look-see at some of the personnel files, or when I call up for a sick day she'll give it to me no questions asked, and sometimes she brings me casserole. And all I have to do is fling her a few ROH tickets every now and then, and seeing as she's 83 years old and I can still hear her cussing over the rest of the audience, I'm very happy to do so.

This woman was the reason I drove an extra 15 minutes to come to this school instead of the one a block away from the apartment where he lived. This woman was the reason I didn't tell the principal to suck his dick and the kids to shut the hell up, and start collecting on unemployment.

And today was the day. Today was the day I am going to talk to her for the first time.

Hey, I'm Colt. Colt? Scott? Scott. I've been watching you... way to sound like a fucking stalker.

She sat down at the table near the window in the teachers' lounge, drinking a cup of coffee like she always did.

I got up, pretending to look outside at the kids playing on the jungle gym, getting closer and closer to the table.

"Hey, how-"

"Scott! Ready to take my class to the art room?"

Yes Mr. Asshole, I'm ready to take your class for you so you can go a smoke in your car.

"Yes Sir, Mr Jones." I smiled at him. Student teachers weren't even supposed to take classes, but what the fuck am I gonna say?

I pretend I hadn't said a word and waited, trying to regain composure.

"Hi." I looked down at her, she was smiling up at me with her glasses sitting on the end of her nose.

"Uh. H-Hey." I grinned at her, shoving my hands in my pockets, trying to look as manly and un-boy like as possible.

"You wanna sit?"

Fuck Yes.

I took a seat in front of her, and she crossed her arms on the table, smiling at me.

"Scott." I smiled; at least I got my name right.

"Brooke." She smiled; I smiled back as if I didn't already know her name.

Silence. "So, how's stuff?" I said. It sounded better in my head I swear to god.

She laughed and shrugged, "Alright I guess, sick of working for Jones though."

"Total sleazebag." I replied as if reflex action.

"Mmmhmm. Thinks using a bottle of Hugo Boss'll cover up that smoke stench."

I laughed, she was so much cuter close up.

"So, who are you working for?" She asked.

"Mrs. Clary." She cringed as I said it.

"You know I hear Mr. Clary is having some fun in the supplies room with Mrs. Joyce."

I turned around to look at the table of three, Mrs. Clary was grading papers as the elderly Mr. Clary and the half-his-age Mrs. Joyce eye fucked the hell out of each other. "That's filthy."

She laughed and nodded.

"So."

"So."

This was awkward.

"So, you want to be a social worker?"

"How did you know that?"

Oh Shit.

"Uhh-"

"Edna scammin' you too?"

"Yeah. For tickets."

"Mmm. I tape The golden girls for her every Sunday."

"Who's file did you read?" I asked, curious.

"Reading files? I just get Monday's off, you've been reading my file!?" She whispered loudly, if you get my drift, she was pissed. I paniced, sitting back preparing to run as fast as I could.

"I'm kidding. There was this guy who worked here a few months back, I pretty much stalked him"

"Ohhh." I said, of course it was another dude you douchebag.

"Ms Vaughn, time to go!" Mr Asshloe Jones yelled.
"Great. Time to go grade essay papers."

I nodded, regretting the whole situation.

She stood up and picked up a few papers she had on the table.

"If it makes you feel any better-" She whispered as she leant over to me.

"I looked at your File too, Scott Colton."