I don't know. You tell me. What IS the job of nasal captivity? It was in the top ten searches yesterday that brought people to the great cat-unbagging experiment. One little questions brings thoughts of so many scenarios.
Is there a ring of clandestine nose-capturers on the loose?
Are companies hiring employees to hold their own noses?
Was this an answer for Alex Trebek on yesterday's Jeopardy? (Which reminds me, if I ever start a garage band, I think I'll name it "Yesterday's Jeopardy."
Is, perhaps, the job of nasal captivity to freak out young children in that cruel "Got Your Nose!" game?
Did somebody name a sweet baby Nasal Captivity, and now that child is grown, and sought by debt collectors?
Does an English-as-a-second-languager have 'captivity' and 'cavity' mixed up?
I concede. I cannot crack the code of nasal captivity. Obviously, that's not my job. I didn't even set out to write about it. Nasal captivity caught my eye on the way out of Statsville, en route to Teachers Are Creatively-Stifled City. And we have just crossed into the city limits.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to be a teacher. Not tomorrow, though, because it's teacher payday! But today, for instance. I was handed some great kernels to cultivate for fertile blog posts. But I must let my field lie fallow. In fact, even yesterday's post would likely be frowned upon. Because even though I elaborated upon the problem with my patience level, it could be misconstrued as an attack upon my charges. Which is not the case. Such behavior is the nature of the...adolescent. The pushing of boundaries. The struggle to break free. To become autonomous. Which is necessary to progress to adulthood. I, on the other hand, am a control freak. So sometimes I near my limit of fostering such progress. Then I rant about it, and reset. No harm, no foul. In my opinion.
I really wish I could place these tiny seeds between two damp paper towels and let them germinate. Then set the sprouts in some spongy peat moss and allow them to take root. Help them branch out. But alas, these fledgling flora must wither before they are even on the vine.
I'll leave you with the embryonic ideas. So that you may weep with me at the waste.
*In the telling of a prank involving a hundred pumpkins, somebody confused 'pumpkins' with 'puppies'.
*"The machine ate part of my dollar." (holding bill with the end chewed off)
*A post-septuagenarian breeder of wiener-dogs was fond of flipping over the puppies to show their junk while crowing about their 'credentials'.
*If somebody steals money from your locker, you should keep quiet and not be a snitch. Because everybody knows the thief is the poorest kid in school.
*Boob cracks must be covered, or sent home to air their grievances in private.
*The keystone of the teacher dress code is a collared shirt.
Are you weeping yet? My head is about to explode. I've already divulged too much. But one thing is certain. The first song my garage band will perform is "Teachers With Collars" to the tune of Wynonna Judd's "Girls With Guitars". I'm taking poetic license with the pronunciation of collars. I can do that. As an artist.