them good old catholic boys

Back in November, I wrote a blog about a creepy guy who tried to talk to me and Karen at the Blarney. I was appalled that he opened with a conversation about the bathroom. As it turns out, he had nothing on this next guy. Drunk Catholic school teachers never cease to amaze me...

This past weekend, I was at a conference in NJ. I expected it to be all women (it was geared toward Catholic school teachers who teach grades K-3), so I was pleasantly surprised to see two young men at the first session. On Saturday night, everyone gathered in the dining hall for dinner, open bar and the Eagles game. Emphasis on "open bar." After the disappointing loss (boo... hisss... ), most of the older crowd went to bed while the remaining 30 or so people stuck around for a few more drinks.

I was sitting at the bar with my friend Amy from work, who is the only other person in our faculty close to my age. I was debating another drink, when I noticed one of the young guys stumble up to the bar. He was the better looking of the two guys (in my opinion, anyway). He stood next to my stool and ordered a drink, while I chatted with Amy. During a lull in our conversation, he recognized the song that was playing, ("Come on Eileen"), and decided to tell us that it reminded him of his mother, because they always dance to it. I took that opportunity to ask him where he worked and what grade he taught, thinking he might still be capable of somewhat decent conversation, despite his obviously intoxicated state. I was wrong. It started out okay. He told us that he teaches fourth grade boys.

"Wow, all boys?" I replied.

"Yeah," he answered, swaying slightly. "And they fart ALL THE TIME."

I glanced at Amy, who was trying to contain her laughter.

"Well, that doesn't sound good," I said, hoping his mention of his students' bodily functions was just a momentay lapse in judgement.

"Everytime I teach a lesson, one of them farts. Every time!" (Here, he paused to demonstrate the farting noise. I swear I am not making this up.) "And it smells. All they do is fart, all the time!"

At this point, Amy is no longer making eye contact with him. She's clearly both disgusted and amused. Since it's already gone this far, I figure I might as well keep going.

"See, that's why I could never teach anything above 3rd grade," I said, hoping to salvage whatever was left of this conversation.

He hits me on the arm, presumably to get my attention. "Yo, this one time when I was in college, my roommate was sitting on the floor... he was so fucked up! And I walked past him and I got right in his face, and then I farted. And it was a dirty, nasty fart!" He says this last part proudly, as if he's achieved something incredible.

Amy and I were both laughing now (and no longer hiding it), but that didn't stop him from continuing the story.

"Yeah, so I thought, maybe if I don't go around farting in my friend's face then my 4th graders won't fart in my classroom!" Wow. That's some logic he's got there.

Some of our other co-workers joined us at the bar then, so he eventually stumbled back to his seat. We didn't hear from him again for the rest of the night.

The sad part is, he had potential. He was in his twenties, good-looking, reasonably intelligent (or so I assumed prior to our conversation), has a job... and then he got drunk enough to regale two complete strangers with tales of his flatulent class. I just don't get men.