“Okay, gentlemen,” she says. “Leave your baskets where they are and go to… where are we now? Still in second?”
She looks at the clock. “Right. Second.” “What about passes?” some sensible basket boy asked.
Your teachers have a list. But if they say anything, tell them I say your neckties are your passes.
I’ll meet you back here when everyone’s dismissed for the auction. Got it? Don’t dawdle!”
We grumbled, Yeah, yeah, and headed to class. And I can tell you this,
not one of the twenty of us listened to a word any of our teachers said that morning.
How can you listen with a noose around your neck, pinched toes,
and a room full of idiots thinking it’s open season on basket boys?
Whoever started this stupid tradition ought to be crammed into a basket and tossed downstream without a serving spoon.
I was basket boy number nine. Which meant I had to stand there on the stage in the gym while nearly half the guys got auctioned off.
Minimum bid, ten bucks. And if nobody bid, the secret was a teacher was assigned to bid on you.
Yes, my friend, the possibilities for mortification were infinite.
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