Harry is pissed

Mr. Shiwa is wearing a Harry Potter look-a-like vest. I'd knit him a red and gold scarf to complete the ensemble...if only I knew how to knit, if only I liked him, if only he didn't pronounce Harry Potter in the most annoying manner so as to sound like a mime rejoining the world of speech, Haaaaaareeee Paaahhhtahh. Trust me, it's fucking obnoxious. The floor is flooded. My pants are proving a useful resource...token mop in the school, absorbing puddle after puddle, weighting down the legs until it takes considerable effort just to walk. The students are noisy, typical, inattentive. I don't care. Mr. Shiwa cares. But I don't care. Hell, they could dye their hair purple, strip naked, dance around and call themselves Georgette. I wouldn't care. This is not my job. I just pretend...and I'm very. Very. Good at it. Mr. Shiwa is pissed no one cares about English. He makes the students apologize. One by one they approach me, eyes downcast, whimpering something along the lines of "gomen" or "I'm sorry," while I tug at my hair, bite my lip, chip the ever-fading black polish from my nails...anything to keep from laughing. Why does he care? The students don't care, I don't care. He's the only one. So, I figure, the problem isn't the students, or me, it's him, all him. Let's dye his hair purple, tart him up and call him Georgette. No, Haaaareeee...that suits him.