Recorder

One of my favorite memories from childhood concerns recorder class in grade five. Of course, I really hated recorder lessons. Shrill noises bother me, and every kid knows the recorder is a bullshit instrument. There are no recorder bands, recorders in the orchestra, or recorder player superstars. This is one of those, “hey kids! This is gonna be so much fun!” attempts at hoodwinking children into believing some half-assed educational scheme is a quality experience.

There we were, toot-tooting our way through Mary Had a Little Lamb, or some other horseshit, reject song, for a teacher who was probably questioning some or all of her life choices at that point. Then, we came to the recorder cleaning at the end of the lesson; where you plug the whistle orifice on the noise phallus and blow your spit out of its arse.

This gave me a clever idea.

The next time we had our recorder lesson, I quietly spent the whole time spitting into my recorder. I would spit, pretend to be playing while I worked up another gob, and then spit again. For the whole twenty minutes. The recorder took it all like a champ; it’s very impressive how much spit one of those things can hold. Near the end, some spit started dribbling out of the end, like pre-cum on a strident cock; a harbinger of the joyful, messy explosion to come.

Then it was time for the recorder cleaning finish to the lesson. It was everything I could have dreamed of and more.

Now, of course, for the cleaning procedure, you hold the recorder upside down, so you can jamb your thumb up its whistle orifice. I was expecting all the spit to just shoot out of the arsehole in a money shot extravaganza, but what happened was even better. As I blew, long, goopy strands of sputum started oozing out of the finger holes all down the recorder’s length. They just kept growing and growing and growing, stretching longer and longer. Then, the bubbles started out of the recorder’s arse. It was at this point that some girl noticed what was happening and began shrieking. Total pandemonium ensued.

Teacher started yelling, and I was cleaving with a white knuckle grip to the whole, “I dunno what happened, I was just playing the song.” Meanwhile there’s a growing puddle of spit on the floor between my feet. Of course, I had to clean everything up, but it was totally worth it.

If there was ever any question of my punk rock status in that crew, it was forever laid to rest on that day.

A few days later, Teacher informed me that if I really did not want to take part in the “music lesson,” I could sit in the back of the class and draw my pictures, so long as I did not disturb the other students.

I don’t think I’ve had a sweeter victory since.

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