My parents had moved from one of the suburbs of Da City, to Some Unnamed Eastern state. Once there, they met the neighbors. One of whom was married to a meteorologist on Da TeeWee.
He (the meteorologist) found himself, from time to time, changing jobs, and this generally involved moving to an altogether new city. Of course, once they had moved, the children would have to be registered in the new school system.
I have, previously, suggested that not every functionary associated with our public schools is, shall we say, the best and/or the brightest. Indeed, from time to time I have wondered if some of these folks are alumni of The Short Bus.
Mrs. Meteorologist told a tale that supported this theory.
It seems that, after one move, she was undergoing the interrogation customarily associated with registering one’s children at the public school. The clerk was presenting questions, and my mother’s friend was answering them.
“Name?” asked the clerk.
My mother’s friend responded with “Name (whatever)”
“Address?”
The response, “(Address)!”
“Telephone number?”
“(Telephone number)!”
“Mother’s occupation?”
“Home maker.”
“Father’s occupation?”
“Meteorologist!”
(Clerk, without missing a beat, steadily typing away:)“What hospital is he on staff at?”
“(Huh?)”
Musings of A Stretcher Ape 