Top Five: Student vs. Stapler Round One

In honor of the last day of school (yay!) and the positive feedback (bigger YAY!) that my story about my dumb student received, I'm now going to present the five dumbest student stories, starting with #5 - Student vs. Stapler, Round One

I teach sophomores, which means I teach a group of young men who have reached that age where they are starting to come to understand their own bodies. They've learned about all the various parts of their anatomy and the varying degrees of pleasure each can bring to them. Which leads us to that favorite of male erogenous zones...

The nipple.

Now, don't get me started on the male nipple debates: why do we even have them, it it really that abnormal to have more than two, does it make you at least a little gay if you like having them played with? There's a time and place for all such debates, but this is not it (though perhaps a future blog entry just might be). This is the time for a heartwarming tale of self discovery, of one boy's journey into nippular manhood. And the stapler it took for him to get there.

My students sit in rows of five, one such row coming to an end right near my desk. On my desk is a stapler. Not a Red Swingline, unfortunately, but my Little Red Riding Hood Special, purchased for $.99 at my local Wal-Greens. As most staplers do, it opens, allowing it to be used flat for various stapling activities, such as hanging notices on a bulletin board.

One day, one of my not-so-bright students sitting in that last row, discovered "Little Red". He, let's call him Jack, picked it up. I was up front giving a lecture on the various issues of censorship in Fahrenheit 451. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jack picking "Little Red" up off my desk and examining it (imagine Neanderthal Man presented with an Ipod and you'll have an idea of the look on his face as he studied the technological marvel that is the stapler). Seeing no harm in allowing him to expand his mind by studying the inner workings of "Little Red" I ignored him and continued with the lecture.

Perhaps that trust in young Jack's eagerness to learn was my failing, for if I had said something to him then, when he first picked up the stapler, perhaps I could have saved him from the pain and anguish that were to follow moments later. For, as I noted, again from the corner of my eye (an educational skill referred to as "withitness" within the trade), Jack opened "Little Red" flat, pressed the "firing" end to his left nipple, and expelled a staple into that poor, pointless bit of his anatomy.

"Ow! Shit!" he yelled. Of course, such an outburst attracted the attention of the entire class. "That hurt."

At this point, I felt obligated in my role as Jack's teacher to turn the situation into a learning opportunity.

"Well," I said, "What did you think would happen if you jabbed two sharp pieces of metal into your nipple?" I refrained from adding the obligatory 'dumbass' to the end of the sentence as I felt that was most certainly implied.

"I don't know," Jack said, throwing "Little Red" down onto the desk, his face the twisted mask of a scorned lover. "I... it hurt!" He peered down the inside of the front of his polo shirt, one hand rubbing the offended area through the fabric. "I think I'm bleeding." He shoved two fingers down the top of his shirt, wiped them across the nippled and pulled them out. "Holy crap! My nipple's bleeding!" He looked to me, his teacher, with the look of a panicked deer, the headlights of an 18-wheeler bearing down on him. "Can I go the nurse?"

I nodded and Jack hastened from the room, one hand still gently rubbing his poor nipple.

As soon as he was gone, I offered five extra credit points to anyone who gave him a titty twister before the end of class.

Round One to the Stapler.