Soviet Doctor

Soviet Doctor My name is Igor. I am Russian, 21 years old, he/him/his. I am a Grad student majoring in Microbiology. I mostly post about video games and social justice stuff.


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True. But it turned out professor gave us wrong answer :p

True. But it turned out professor gave us wrong answer :p

"please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious."

Asked by Anonymous

mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

Reblogged from lovingyouisredforyou

thedandydamsel:

cloneclubdancepartay:

buttlass:

buttlass:

im all for a tarzan remake where everything is the same but tarzan is a girl please and thank you

and in case ur wondering yes jane is still a girl they’re jungle lesbians you’re welcome

WOULD TARZAN STILL BE SHIRTLESS?????????

Yes

(Source: gamegrrl)

Reblogged from apostaterevolutionary

azuremosquito:

Few things infuriate me more than something interrupting party banter.

(Source: apostatemosquito)

Reblogged from lovingyouisredforyou

angfdz:

me: *has an opinion*

me: *realizes that my opinion is a result of my limited world view*

me: *stays in my lane*

scottish-badger:

OK SO EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT GLASGOW YOU WILL KNOW FROM THIS STATUE
THIS MY FRIENDS IS THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STATUE IN ROYAL EXCHANGE SQUARE IN GLASGOW AND YES HE HAS A TRAFFIC CONE ON HIS HEAD
NOW LET ME TELL YOU I HAVE LIVED IN GLASGOW FOR 18 AND A HALF YEARS AND NOT ONCE HAVE I SEEN THIS MAN WITHOUT A CONE ON HIS HEAD
IT HAS BEEN REMOVED SO MANY TIMES BY THE COUNCIL BUT SOMEHOW IT ALWAYS SEEMS TO GET BACK UP THERE AND ITS NOT A SMALL STATUE ITS PRETTY FUCKING BIG SO WHOEVER KEEPS ON PUTTING UP THERE IS A DETERMINED WEE FUCKER
IT HAS BECOME A NATIONAL SYMBOL FOR GLASGOW CAUSE ITS JUST THE EPITOME OF GLASWEGIAN HUMOUR AND THEY EVEN PAINTED THE CONE FUCKING GOLD FOR THE OLYMPICS
AND A FEW MONTHS AGO THE COUNCIL SAID THEY WERE GOING TO RAISE UP THE STATUE SO PEOPLE COULDNT PUT THE CONE ON AND LET ME TELL YOU IT WAS FUCKING PANDAEMONIUM ABOUT GLASGOW IT WAS AS IF WORLD WAR THREE HAD BROKEN OUT THERE WERE FACEBOOK PAGES AND PROTESTS AND PETITIONS AND ALL SORTS TO KEEP THE CONE ON
SO LONG AND SHORT OF IT IS THAT THIS STUPID STATUE AND ITS STUPID CONE IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT SCOTS IN PARTICULAR GLASWEGIANS CAUSE WE CANT DECIDE WHETHER WE WANT TO RULE OUR OWN COUNTRY OR NOT BUT IF YOU FUCKING DARE TRY TO TAKE THE CONE OFF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTONS HEAD THERE WILL BE A NATION WIDE OUTRAGE AND GLASGOWS OWN VERSION OF LES MIS WILL HAPPEN I AINT FUCKING KIDDIN

Reblogged from phoebebuffayyy

scottish-badger:

OK SO EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT GLASGOW YOU WILL KNOW FROM THIS STATUE

THIS MY FRIENDS IS THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STATUE IN ROYAL EXCHANGE SQUARE IN GLASGOW AND YES HE HAS A TRAFFIC CONE ON HIS HEAD

NOW LET ME TELL YOU I HAVE LIVED IN GLASGOW FOR 18 AND A HALF YEARS AND NOT ONCE HAVE I SEEN THIS MAN WITHOUT A CONE ON HIS HEAD

IT HAS BEEN REMOVED SO MANY TIMES BY THE COUNCIL BUT SOMEHOW IT ALWAYS SEEMS TO GET BACK UP THERE AND ITS NOT A SMALL STATUE ITS PRETTY FUCKING BIG SO WHOEVER KEEPS ON PUTTING UP THERE IS A DETERMINED WEE FUCKER

IT HAS BECOME A NATIONAL SYMBOL FOR GLASGOW CAUSE ITS JUST THE EPITOME OF GLASWEGIAN HUMOUR AND THEY EVEN PAINTED THE CONE FUCKING GOLD FOR THE OLYMPICS

AND A FEW MONTHS AGO THE COUNCIL SAID THEY WERE GOING TO RAISE UP THE STATUE SO PEOPLE COULDNT PUT THE CONE ON AND LET ME TELL YOU IT WAS FUCKING PANDAEMONIUM ABOUT GLASGOW IT WAS AS IF WORLD WAR THREE HAD BROKEN OUT THERE WERE FACEBOOK PAGES AND PROTESTS AND PETITIONS AND ALL SORTS TO KEEP THE CONE ON

SO LONG AND SHORT OF IT IS THAT THIS STUPID STATUE AND ITS STUPID CONE IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT SCOTS IN PARTICULAR GLASWEGIANS CAUSE WE CANT DECIDE WHETHER WE WANT TO RULE OUR OWN COUNTRY OR NOT BUT IF YOU FUCKING DARE TRY TO TAKE THE CONE OFF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTONS HEAD THERE WILL BE A NATION WIDE OUTRAGE AND GLASGOWS OWN VERSION OF LES MIS WILL HAPPEN I AINT FUCKING KIDDIN

Reblogged from lovingyouisredforyou

nintendontdodrugs:

Chris Ramsey calling out Katie Hopkins for her views on fat people.

Reblogged from lovingyouisredforyou

(Source: thickerthanectoplasm)

Reblogged from taaruk

nethport:

compliment the person you reblog this from in the tags

Reblogged from lovingyouisredforyou

tori-the-awesome:


Here’s a little PSA for you con goers.


Do not criticize someones cosplay because of their age
Do not shame someone in cosplay because of their weight
Do not point out a cosplayers flaw, scars, birthmark, makeup smudge
Do not blame a cosplayer for their insecurities
Do not slap a cosplayers ass without consent
Do not cat call any cosplayers
Do not be racist to cosplayers
Do not judge cosplayers because of gender

DO NOT BE AN ASSHOLE TO COSPLAYERS ANY AGE, SIZE, GENDER, OR SKIN TONE