The Danes

An email was sent out yesterday, informing the staff that Patriot High School would be host to a group of Danish high school basketball players today. Each Dane was matched up with a host student from the Patriot High basketball team with whom they attended classes and against whom they played a scrimmage at the end of the day.

Personally, I found the whole thing surreal, and frankly a little dangerous. The Danes usually visit a suburban high school on these trips, but for some reason they decided to come to Patriot this year. I cringed at the thought of one of these kids getting their ass kicked in some dark stairwell, or at the very least, leaving with some serious psychological scars after witnessing the depths of depravity breeding within our walls. But while I can’t vouch for their psychological states, I am relieved to report to you that none of our Danish guests were physically injured during the making of this Patriot High school day.

My first sighting was when I called a kid up to the deans office because he had been seen in the cafeteria punching one person and slapping another. When he came in, a tall pimply-faced boy with fuzzy blond hair followed behind him.

“Who are you!” I barked at the yellow fuzzball. He froze like a reindeer in headlights.

“That’s my…” said the boy I had called up, unsure how to describe his new friend.

“Oh, that’s your…” I was unsure how to describe him also.

“Yeah,” he said.

Not everyone shared our hesitancy to name the guests, however. I heard one teacher ask a student, “Hey! Where’s your Denmark?”

As the day went on I spotted a few more, gliding through the crowd like spirit bears, and exhibiting bizarre behaviors like holding the door for the person behind them.

“I asked one of ’em if they wuh from Amstuhdam,” said another teacher. “And they said, ‘No, weah frum Denmahk.’ So I says, ‘Oh, I thought you wuh from tha Nethuhlands.’ Boy, did I feel dumb. Typical stupid American, I guess.”

As I mentally pictured the Danes sitting in on one of our kindergarten level classes, I told the teacher “Don’t worry, I guarantee that you will not be the dumbest American they meet today.”

“Yeah, just introduce ’em ta me!” Shouted the Head of Security, Mr Green, from across the office.

Although the rest of the day passed without any blond heads getting bashed in, I can’t say the same for the locals as our streak of daily violence continued unabated. Riding home on the train, I couldn’t get an image out of my head of two boys in boxing stances, one backing the other down, like two crabs on a beach. When the boy backing up stupidly took his guard down while trying to take his hat off, the other kid instantly put him on the floor with a lightning fast flurry of punches. Then he stomped on the kid’s face again and again while the kid desperately tried to shield head with his hands. When the stomper was finally done, he strutted through the crowd, laughing and throwing up gang signs as the crowd chanted “Cr!!!!!!!p Cr!!!!!!!!!p Cr!!!!!!!!!!p”.

I saw all of this on the security cameras after the fact, by the way. It’s not like I was right there standing idly by taking notes as this guy got his shit canned. Hell no, I would have saved that MS-13 kid from that Cr!p. Yeah, I would have made everything okay. If I had only been there.

I actually did make it on the scene during the Crip-chanting-victory-parade-aftermath and managed to clear the area of everyone and everything except for some blood, a couple pieces of tooth, and a constellation of tiny blue beads spilled across the floor.

Red, white and blue. Welcome to America.

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