First Day of Second Grade

Well, summer's over and the time has come for little old Chicken to go to the second grade. I was excited to see all my old friends again, especially Millie.

But Dad totally screwed that up.

My Dad was supposed to take me to my first day of second grade at Steve Irwin Elementary. I had all the stuff to make me the coolest kid in the class: Hannah Montana lunchbox, Batman backpack, glitter glue, Trapper Keeper with a picture of the Jonas Brothers on it. My friends were gonna be soooo jealous 'cause I had all the best stuff.

But Dad screwed that up.

I know my Dad is old and crusty and forgets things. Sure, he's had some health problems, but I think he took one too many painkillers before driving me to my first day.

He dropped me off at St. Explosious Catholic School.

Before I could stop him, Dad drove away towards the local Walgreens and I was stuck at a school where I didn't know anybody. No Jimmy the Monkey, no Mackenzie the Poodle, no Wonda the Wombat, and no Millie the Meerkat.

Son of a Bitch!

So this woman, dressed up in the Catholic version of a bur qua (they call themselves Nuns or Wives Of God. So does that mean that Mormons really are the true religion 'cause God is a polygamist?), took me to my classroom.

My new teacher's name is Sister Christian, and my time has come, and I know 'cause I'm the only one. It's true! I'm the only one who doesn't have a blue blazer and khakis. Stupid uniforms. Cat's hate pants. We are fond of hats, though. Boots, too.

So Sister Christian told us the story of St. Explosious. He's the patron saint of suicide bombers, farts, fireworks, indigestion, spark plugs, Jimmy Walker, and pre-1990s cartoons. Then teacher asked us about what we thought God was. Thank goodness I don't have knuckles 'cause teacher sure didn't like my answer: There is no God, God is dead, so says Nietzche in "Also Spake Zarathustra," the penultimate tome on existentialism.

Sister Christian asked if I was Catholic, and I said no, I'm a house cat, and she said I would need to be baptised and confirmed. Well, let me tell you somethin', Sister, I do NOT get wet and I'll confirm that by gouging out your eyes when you try and get me anywhere near the baptismal fount. I will unleash the stigmata on you and your hands, eyes and feet will bleed so that you believe what I say.

Why couldn't Dad have dropped me off at an Egyptian school? I would have been revered like a god, just like C-3PO in "Return of the Jedi."

You would think that Catholics would like cats. It's in the name, for Pete's sake. CATholic, CATechism, InvoCATion. But, no. The Catholics like boxing, drinking whiskey, lighting candles, murmuring, and playing football. You'd think they'd like me 'cause I'm pale, red-headed, and always scrapping for a fight. They might be coming around. I was asked to be an altar boy. They said I would get petted a lot and I sure do like to get petted. So I was sent down to meet Father Goose.

He told me that the role of the altar boy was simple. I light some candles and hold the plate of wafers for him during church. First off, cats are afraid of fire, and besides that, I was told not to play with matches. And those wafers sure don't look like Nilla Wafers. Father Goose told me if I did my job good, he'd take me to his office so that he could pet me lots and he wouldn't have to share me with anyone, just me and him, alone, in his office, getting petted, a lot.

Father Goose sure seems nice. He even offered me a popsicle.

But I had to get back to my class or else Sister Christian would beat me senseless with a ruler.

There were some weird kids in my class. Mick the Mastiff, Siobhan the Sheep, Shannon the Sheep, Sean the Sheep, Seamus the Sheep, Guido the Goat, Giuseppe the Greyhound, Dominic the Donkey, and Ant'ny the Anchovy. I sat next to the sheep. Mastiffs, Mafia, and meow-meows don't mix.

Did you know that Jesus on the Cross is not a plaything and should not be used as an action figure during recess?

Sister Christian cannot fly.

Our homework assignment is to go home and read Genesis. Call me a cheater, but I think I'll just listen to their best album, "Invisible Touch" instead. Pretty apropo. I AM in the Land of Cunfusion.

Actually, I'm hoping my brother Po will take me to my real school tomorrow. I miss my friends. And I sure don't want to read the Bible. It's not a pop-up book, there are no car chases. If I want to read about a carpenter, I'll take on the Bob The Builder Golden Books collection.

We had to say a prayer before we left for the day. I prayed that I could go back to my real school. Steve Irwin is my god and I want to worship in his temple of paste and dodgeballs. Catholic school is like prison. Uniforms, glorification of torture (who really wants to look at a guy being mutilated on a cross wearing a crown of thorns with blood all over his face, nails in his hands and feet, bone-thin, half-naked, a look of absolute agony on is face? Real nice learning environment, geesh!), rampant alcoholism (they give kids wine!). No way. I want to go back to my daily dose of white milk, macaroni art, and Millie.

Peace be with you? I'll be at peace once I'm back to Steve Irwin Elementary passing love notes to Millie and watching Jimmy shoot spitballs at the back of teacher's head. Now that's what I call school! I just hope I don't end up in Mr. Principal's office for missing the first day. If I do, then you better sleep with one eye open, Dad!

Amen