TAKE THAT, MY GYM TEACHER, OR WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID

“Glenn,” my gym teacher and resident Neanderthal says,
when he tries to make me climb the ropes.
“Your turn, lift yourself up to God.”
“You’re not allowed to teach religion,” I say.
“You’re nothin’ but a wuss,” he replies.
“You’re not allowed to heap verbal abuse,” I say.
“Class, give him a hand; he needs help,” he adds.
“You’re not allowed to employ peer pressure.”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll make you do fifty push-ups.”
“You’re not allowed to use physical punishment.”
“This is my class. I can do what I want.”
“You’re not allowed to employ dictatorial powers.”
“So, wise guy, how do I get you to go up?”
“Just ask nicely,” I say, scampering up the rope.
“Get back to your spot,” he fumed, “before I give you a zero.”
“You can’t,” I say. “I did the task.”
He didn’t say anything else.
My victory said it all.