Born Too Soon: America's Hottest High School Teachers!

Ho hum.  Another day, another high school teacher having sex with her male student on a green shag rug.  It's a story that's become all too familiar, like "Fireman Saves Tree-Climbing Kitten", "Lottery Winner Now Destitute" and "Woman Stuck to Toilet Seat Freed".

"Shagadelic, baby!"

Follow this link for the story in the Boston Herald, and this one for a handy pocket guide to the recent history of female teacher/male high (and middle!) school liaisons.  This material will be on the final, which will count for half your grade. 

"I'd like to talk to you about your book report on 'Great Expectations'--after class."

The teacher in question--who shall remain nameless here, since it's already splattered all over the internet--seemed like a wholesome family woman, according to one neighbor.  Isn't that always the case?  This is why I have repeatedly called for regular round-ups and preventive detention of wholesome family women, before another young man's morals are corrupted.

As Henny Youngman used to say: "Take my wife--please!"

The teacher in question was a "waifish, bespectacled" type, says the story.  Again, you fool with these women at your peril.  It's why I support automated book checkout at my local library.  If you get too close to these hotties, you'll get burned.

"Hot pants--huh!"

My question is not "What the hell's going on in America's high schools today?"  My question is "Where the hell were these teachers when I was in school?"  Here is as close as I ever got to the torrid emotions that are apparently swirling just beneath the surface of America's female high school teachers today. 

CAUTION:  The stories you are about to read may bring a blush to the cheek of the innocent.  And, as on Dragnet, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sister Mary Clarice:  A self-styled "new sheriff in town", this Precious Blood nun took over the glee club of Sacred Heart Elementary School in 1960, determined to clean house and crack down on a hard-core group of depraved boys who refused to sing along to "O Sanctissima" and would crack "elephant" jokes in the back row!  (Sample--Q: How can you tell if there's been an elephant in your refrigerator?  A:  The footprints in the Jello.)  During a fire drill she caught me talking in line and grabbed my arm in a manner that is recommended by the Kama Sutra as a sure-fire means of bringing your lover to heights of ecstasy never-before experienced--and she wasn't even my home room teacher!

"What are you boys doing back there?"

Mrs. Kennealy:  This grey-haired woman single-handedly stopped a fifth-grade crime wave that included consensual "pass out" sessions in the cloak room where students held their breath and allowed classmates to squeeze them until they lost consciousness.  I betrayed the trust she had placed in me as Class President in an effort to shed my goody-goody image by asking Scott Lilja and Tommy Dickman to teach me how to give someone the finger; she caught me in mid-bird-flip and whacked my left middle finger with a metal-edged ruler, producing a scar that embarrasses me at business lunches and social occasions to this day.

"So you're saying Andrew Marvel's 'To his Coy Mistress' isn't an allegory?"

Mrs. Riestang:  This sultry-voiced English teacher was familiar to me from summers at the Country Club pool, where I was a part-time lifeguard.  When I was assigned to her creative writing class senior year, she praised my lame post-nuclear bomb survival story "Applejack" with words that, in retrospect, were a thinly-veiled attempt at seduction. 

"I think you need to work harder to develop the female character," she said as she leaned over my desk, a potent potpourri of cigarette smoke and Elizabeth Arden perfume emanating from her every pore.  "Also, you've got some kind of Sloppy Joe goober on your lip."