Performance Exhausts Cure Those Hump Day Blues

by : Mike Rosania

A disheveled Mr. Sweeny hurries into the Social Studies room moments after the bell rings - late as usual. "Happy Hump Day!" the class yells. Patrick Sweeny has been teaching Social Studies for thirteen years now. You would think he would have gotten the routine down, but tardiness is no stranger to Mr. Sweeny. He is usually found darting through the halls, in a constant state of disarray - a pile of books under one arm, a briefcase under the other, coffee in one hand, a brown bag sack lunch in the other.

Style, on the other hand, is foreign language to him - it went extinct with dinosaurs as far as Patrick Sweeny is concerned. One might think his wardrobe was similar to that of a superhero's closet, consisting of multiple pairs of the same outfit, but the remnants of chalk dust and pit stains allude to a different, less exciting story.

"Hump day. I wish..." mumbles Mr. Sweeny softly under his breathe. Poor ole Sweeny boy hadn't enjoyed the company of a woman in years, maybe decades. But can you blame him? Receding hairlines and bad hygiene aren't exactly in style these days; well, maybe bad hygiene.

"Hey Mr. Sweeny, what are we learning about today?" asked Samantha Wilcott, a future valedictorian.
"Why don't we start by going over last night's homework? Everyone please take it out-"

"Sweeny, I want to see you out in the hall," boomed Principle Harrison's deep voice. He had the perfect voice for a principle. His vocal chords had the power to send chills down a freshman's spine, the power to break up a fist fight, the power to sing "Chocolate Rain."

The kids in the classroom could hear the bass from Principle Harrison's voice echoing, "Sweeny, do you have any idea how many times you've been late this year?"
Sweeny start to stammer, "Well... I uh...Can't recall the exact -".
"38! 38 days. If you were a student you'd be held back. If you were my kid you'd be grounded. Heck, if this were taxes, you'd be arrested!"
Sweeny just stood there with his head hanging down, finally noticing the chalk dust covering his shirt. "Point taken Greg." Greg was Principal Harrison's first name.
"I don't mean to come down you, but you need to make it here on time. If you can't, I will find someone who can."

Sweeny nodded and returned to the classroom. He wasn't in the mood for teaching anymore, or for talking at all for that matter. So he passed out a quiz and sat as his desk in silence.

The problem isn't that he is lazy. The problem is that he is extremely disorganized. From the moment he wakes up, Mr. Sweeny is constantly playing catch up. Today he was out of toothpaste. If it's not toothpaste he's out of, it's milk, or ink for his printer, or something else. He then has to drive over to the supermarket to get his supplies and ends up being late for work.

So how on earth will Sweeny be able to salvage his job, his dignity, and his life? It hit him like Babe Ruth knocking one out of the park. The problem was his car. His beat up little sedan was always having problems. He needed something, like Principle Harrison's voice, that would let people know that he was coming and they better watch out.

He ended up attaching a growling, earth-shaking performance exhaust in combination with nice throaty air intake.