This is a quick story about irony. It’s the story I tell whenever a child comes up to me and asks me what irony is. That happens more than you’d think. I remember in 11th grade a thin blonde girl asking me the definition. The emo kid in the group gave her an answer that didn’t seem to satisfy her flat-chested brain. It was my time to shine.
In elementary school, we had a guidance counselor. I’ll call her Doctor Z because her last name started with a Z and she had apparently been at school for so long that she was a doctor. The principal of the school was a doctor too. I think the whole school was full of doctors. Yet I still managed to break my leg during recess. Doctors love when people get hurt. I think they purposefully put grease on the monkey bars and paid off that kid to kick me off.
(Not Dr. Zaius)
Doctor Z was a very old woman. Fucking ancient would be the most accurate description. She was robust and needed a cane to get around. Still, that wouldn’t save her from the inevitable.
Doctor Z had one thing that she pounded into our heads. It was that we should always look both ways before crossing the street. She would come into our class and say “Left, Right, Left” to represent the direction your head should go when crossing the street. That’s why we all found it incredibly ironic that Doctor Z had to retire from her job after getting hit by a car.
(Not this guy either)
The whole story behind Doctor Z is unclear. She survived her brush with death and made one more appearance a few months later to say goodbye. She wasn’t well-liked by the students. She was a curmudgeon who would yell at the loud kids for being too noisy and the quiet kids for not speaking up. If we weren’t all 7 years old, I would swear that one of us ran her down out of spite while mumbling “Left, Right, Left” as she flew over the windshield.
If everything I heard about Doctor Z was true, she lived a tragic life. I heard that her adult daughter was the victim of a famous urban legend, the guy who hides under the car and slashes your ankles. It had apparently happened outside of a store called “Cost Cutters” whose symbol was a large pair of scissors, representing the fact that they cut costs. After the murder, they had to take down those scissors. Like I said, I don’t know how much of this was true and how much of it was the adults I knew lying. My babysitter told me that taxes were large spikes that came out of the kitchen floor and that was why I should hate George Bush Sr. No wonder Generation-Y’ers are so dumb. These Baby Boomers have been fucking with our heads since we could walk.
That’s my tale of irony. A woman who dedicated years of her life helping to protect children from getting hit by cars ends up getting hit by one herself. I told that story to the blonde girl who was in great need of a pair of tits. She looked at me, chapped her gum and didn’t get it. Oh well. Some people aren’t meant to appreciate God’s sick sense of humor.
(Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama, kind of looks like my guidance counselor)