“The Bully System”
A lot’a stuff has been said on the subject of Bullying lately, but most o’ that stuff has focussed on the trendy new forms of The Craft. Like twittersniping. Sadly, the good ol’ fashioned methods have taken a back seat– which doesn’t mean some fucked-up shit isn’t still happening in the front seat. It just means the powers-that-be have educated themselves into believing they can stop it.
An example: In the Schooling Zones (where the wild bullies commonly graze for prey) special attention is given to the one type o’ person we far-too-often forget about in this whole bullying scenario: the Victim. Remember him? Well, of course ya don’t! And why would you– when the powers-that-be have remembered him for you?? Yes, in memory of the long-suffering (and almost-as-long snivelling ) victim-hordes, the powers-that-be have poured their vast human resources into fixing this pesky problem once and for all. You’d think they’d be good at it by now, too, coz they been doin’ it for such a long time– even back in the days when I myself was a junior citizen of the Schooling Zones.
Back then they conjured up a little thing they called “The Buddy System”. Here’s how it worked: In order for small kids to be free from the torments of large kids, the small kids would be given their very own large kid for protection. Thus, by a simple piece of height-based logic, the problem of Schoolyard Bullying was fixed.
Or was it?
For my part, several doubts popped up shortly after meeting my own large kid who went by the name of NATASHA DE NASHA and… um… Did I say “large kid”? When I should’a said “humongous fuckin’ SHE-BRUTE of a fuckin’ kid” because, even though she was the same age as me (give or take a month or two), she was (relatively-speaking) Big.
Now, the powers-that-be had successfully educated me (and others) into believing that we needed protection, so (in theory) Natasha’s bigness should’ve been good. But (in practise) it was anything BUT. I found out first hand when my new buddy greeted me wi’ the words (and I quote):
“Give me all your lunch money RIGHT NOW, small kid.”
Puzzled, I wondered why she wanted my lunch money. She said:
“Well, I’m not protecting you for free.”
When I (boldly) asked her what would happen if I didn’t hand over the dough she punched me. Then she explained that’s what bullies would do if I no longer had her protection. And so, reeling from her rock-solid logic (and her equally rock-solid punch), I coughed up the coinage.
As the weeks (and the punchings) rolled on, I soon found out just how many other small kids were having similar experiences within the Buddy System. That was when I began to think that maybe– just maybe– there was a minor glitch in the whole caper. In hindsight, it’s easy to see how the powers-that-be had (perhaps accidentally?) created what can only be described as a Schoolyard Protection Racket, whereby the random, casual bullying of yesteryear was replaced by a much more structured thing. In short, those Old School bullies had been renamed “buddies” and the natural order wasn’t overthrown so much as it was just kind of… organized better.
But then came that fateful day when I turned up at school without my lunching money and had to face the disappointment of my Buddy, who clucked her tongue in a homicidal rage an’ told me about a certain failsafe new method her kind had for dealing with “freeloaders” like me. Before I could ask what that new method was, she ripped open the front of my shirt, exposing my then-hairless chest. I gritted my teeth and waited keenly, but all Natasha De Nasha did was stand there blinking in horror, before screaming and running away (also in horror). Which worried me. “Who’ll demonstrate what bullies might do to me without a large kid’s protection NOW?” I fretted.
Clearly, I had to get my buddy back on side, lest I become one o’ those “victims” I’d heard so many bad things about. So I hounded my large kid, stalked her, even physically chased her, for days on end, until (finally) I cornered her in that one place from which there could be no escape: a corner. Realizing she was cornered in that corner, she couldn’t do anything but make the sign of the cross with her fingers and throw a jar of minced garlic at my head. I told her that all I wanted was for her to show me this “new method” of bullying, and she told me to “Do It Myself”.
“Do what myself?” I wondered.
“Give yourself… a Nipple Cripple!” she whimpered.
A Nipple Cripple! Those golden, sunlit words were like a shaft of… y’know… golden sunlight. Except they were words. And words are only noise– but the idea was very sound. So I rolled up my short sleeves and plunged my hands down towards my chestal region where I found… well, nothing.
“Something’s wrong,” I mused, while having a look down the front of my shirt. What I discovered (after nine and a half years of being dressed by my Mother) was a discovery no well-dressed boy could ever hope to recover from. In my own precocious words of the time: “I AIN’T GOT NO NIPPLES!!” How– at the ripe young age of nine ‘n’ two quarters– could young Duncan Dooligan (i.e. me) have overlooked that not-so-minor detail?! I mean, apart from the fact I was a lousy dresser and all (hence the maternal aid in the boyswear department) you’d surely think I might have caught a glimpse of nip at some stage. There must be some mistake, I thought, before having another crack at the auto-nipple-cripple thing. But every time I groped around on my own chest looking for signs of aureolic life, my thumbs and forefingers careened off harmlessly into my armpits– and what sort of a sook would feel the least bit violated by an “Armpit Cripple”?
Now, the keen-eyed Reader would be wondering: “How come you took so long to make this grim discovery, Duncan Dooligan the Third? I mean, didn’t you” (meaning me) “ever notice your conspicuous lack of nippular endowment when you bathed yourself on the odd occasion?”
To which I reply: “MIND YER OWN BUSINESS ABOUT WHO BATHED ME, DOOD!!”
No, it seems that if the Buddy System did any good at all (intended or not) then it was only in the way said system forced me to stare myself square in the chest and face the Bare Facts.
And for that I should also probably thank my Designated Bully, too– wherever she may roam.
On second thoughts… nah, fuck that cunt.