Mar. 18: Plagiarism, sorta

It’s Spirit Week at Katie and Jack’s school, and today the kids were supposed to dress up as their favorite character from a book. There were lots of Harry Potters. Several Cats in the Hat. A few cute Eloises and Fancy Nancys, who would’ve looked less like fictional characters and more like tarted up little whores if they were in middle school.

One teacher dressed as Pippi Longstocking; she had the stick-y out-y braids and freckles and funny clothes, and I knew instantly who she was supposed to be. But she said the kids didn’t know who she was! Another teacher dressed as the mom from Little House on the Prairie, and said none of her students knew that character either. What is wrong with kids these days? I feel positively ill.

It got me thinking about some of the kids’ books out there that can transcend generations. There aren’t many, I’m afraid. And that got me thinking about something entirely different: if I wrote a book, what would I call it? And that got me thinking that anything I would write for kids would be a really, really bad idea unless I have constant and strict supervision because I have bursts of… well… inappropriateness. Anyone who reads this blog regularly has witnessed that firsthand.

I won’t let that stop me, though. But I might just concentrate on a different audience. For instance (insert dream sequence noise here)…

This I know:

If Chris (emcityguy) and I were to co-write a book, it would be called It’s Not My Fault I Know Everything. Because, y’know, we do. And you haters just need to deal with it. Right, Chris?

You shoulda been in the class we co-taught that one time. Those county employees got a bad-ass mofo coupla trainers. They may have come in that morning as idiots (in fact, I’m quite sure they did), but when they left that afternoon, they were a changed people. They were sponges, soaked with our brilliance. They were glowing with wisdom. They even had certificates of attendance. Signed. By. Both. Of. Us. We didn’t just hand those things out to anyone, y’know. Well, OK, we did. But they deserved them that day.

This I just found out:

Someone already wrote a book with the title It’s Not My Fault I Know Everything! It’s written for third graders, so it cannot possibly be anything like the book Chris and I would write. Because I’m pretty sure our book would be one page after another of us each writing “I’m awesome!” and “I know!  I’m awesome too!” and “I know! Because only people as awesome as us can detect the same level of awesomeness in another person!” and “Totally!” and “Um, you got a boog…”

Now, that’s some best-seller material we got right there, I tell you what.

Nowadays most books written for third graders have some type of [whiny voice] lesson, unlike the ones that were popular when I was a kid. You remember those little gems, don’t you? Most of them inadvertently included detailed instructions for lock-picking and setting up Baby’s First Meth Lab. Man, those were some gooood books.

I assume a book such as It’s Not My Fault I Know Everything is no exception to the new generation of what they call “good books;” it’s probably full of boring life lessons and main characters that are all reformed by the end. Where’s the fun in that? That’s just being preachy, as if knowing everything doesn’t make you better than everyone else. People need to know how much they would benefit from the knowledge Chris and I the omniscient are so willing to share. Am I right?

I just want to know why anyone would waste the fabulously perfect title of It’s Not My Fault I Know Everything if they’re not going to include tips on how to be fabulously perfect and how to make sure everyone knows it. WHY? Now we have to come up with a new title, Chris.

In my most sarcastic tone: “Whatev.”