This is a story from my first year of high school. A young boy with mobility issues attended a number of my classes; some days he would get around using a pair of crutches, and on bad days, he would use a wheelchair. He was also well below average height and suffered from what is known locally as “Wee Man Syndrome”. In other words, he would regularly try to pick fights with people much, much bigger than him for little or no reason. Although, he was fairly safe in the knowledge that nobody wanted to be known as the person who fought the small kid in a wheelchair.

That is, until the events of this story.

One day, in the middle of a class, our teacher had to step out. I don’t know why, but we were left unsupervised for what felt like a really long time, and most of us kids started to have a laugh and carry on.

Now, I forget what started it but the kid, who was using his crutches on this occasion, took exception to something a much taller boy said and made a critical error of judgment.

Wee Guy: “I want to fight you.”

Tall Kid: “What did you say?”

Wee Guy: “You heard me: I want to fight you. Square go, right now!”

His error of judgment here was that the kid he was speaking to had a reputation for being a bit wild and for not taking crap from anyone, not even from teachers (hence having spent a fair bit of time in detention).

Tall Kid: “Aye,. Okay, then. Let’s go.”

At that point, he got out of his seat and walked over to the Wee Guy’s desk. The Wee Guy promptly panicked and tried to hit him over the head with one of his crutches. The Tall Kid snatched the crutch out of the air, threw it away, and then picked the Wee Guy up by his collar.

Tall Kid: “Listen very carefully because this is the only warning you are getting. I don’t care that you can’t walk. I think you’re a coward because you pick fights knowing people don’t want to fight you. Well, the next time you talk crap to me or any of my pals, I am going to make you eat your crutches.”

Then, he shoved the Wee Guy back into his seat, picked the crutch up, slammed it onto the desk in front of him, and walked back to his own seat.

The teacher came back to class not long afterward, so that was pretty much the end of it, but funnily enough, I don’t recall the Wee Guy picking any more fights after this incident. I don’t remember what the class was, but I do remember the lesson.

Way back when, before flying cars and cell phones and when people still lived in caves, there were several families who lived on the same dead-end cave-path as me.

All the caves on this street had kids who were between four and seven, except for the one nine-year-old bully-brat who lived in the cave with the BMW parked in front of it. My own two kids were exactly within his objective age range, so they were prime targets.

These neighborhood kids could all play together until Bully-brat showed up, then he’d take charge of the entire situation, mess up the game, take toys, or do whatever he could to disrupt an enjoyable time for the other kids.

Any time Bully-brat’s dad was told about the offensive behavior of his spawning, he’d laugh it off with, “Boys will be boys, best to let ’em sort it out on their own.”

Of course, if another parent chased off Bully-brat, then dad would come over raising hell, telling other parents to, “Quit picking on my son and stay out of it!”

One day several dads got together in my car-cave and over the course of a few six-packs we decided what we needed was a bully tougher than Bully-brat.

That was the start of a plan: one of the other dads had a twelve-year-old nephew who played catcher in Little League. Everybody chipped in a few bucks, and it was decided we’d offer Little League $30 to spend the weekend with his uncle and show Bully-brat what being picked on was all about. This was not an insignificant amount of money at that time, especially for a twelve-year-old.

The hired gun showed up on Friday afternoon, and all the other parents had their phone number. If we saw anything, we’d call, describe the situation, and Little League was to come over and act like he’d witnessed the whole thing and would punish Bully-brat accordingly. He couldn’t really hurt him, but he could rough him up and send him on his way.

It worked perfect.

Bully-brat was spotted taking a ball from a six-year-old girl and throwing it across a fence. Little League showed up within two minutes and made Bully-brat climb over the fence to get it. I think there were a couple headlocks involved before the message was properly received, but no injuries were sustained.

Another time Bully-brat tossed some rocks in a driveway where kids were learning how to skate. Little League showed up and made him pick them all up, put them in his pockets, and throw them in his own driveway.

This went on all weekend and on Sunday afternoon Bully-brat’s dad caught Little League chastising his kid for another infraction. Little League responded with, “He’s picking on my friend! Leave us alone and let us boys be boys! We’ll sort it out on our own!”

He had remembered all the sound bites. Dad called his brat inside.

Any time after that, when Bully-brat started his crap with other kids, they’d threaten to get Little League over here to teach him some manners.

Illegal? Highly likely.

Satisfying? You bet.

Best $30 plan a bunch of cavemen ever came up with over beer.

When I was in elementary school *mumble* decades ago, my mom joined a kind of mom’s club that the school had. I don’t remember a lot of it, other than that they would have a Friday Popcorn Day for kids and ran a holiday “store” where kids could buy small gifts to give to their families. They would also have whistles and be playground monitors to help herd kids inside.

Most of the school student body knew the moms in this club, and it was no secret that “[My Name]’s Mom Is Really Nice!” (I heard this a lot growing up.)

One young girl, [Bully], was taught some really poor ideas by her parents. She used the fact that she wasn’t white to throw the race card around and get out of anything, which meant that she rarely got detention despite being a little terror. She would deface school property with Sharpies, bully other kids, refuse to behave in class, and go running to her mommy if someone with a spine put her in detention.

Just a few weeks into the next school year, the brown stuff hit the fan when she went too far. [Bully] got in trouble for deliberately throwing a Nerf ball and hitting fellow students in the head with it. She then ran to the school administration with a story that our new teacher had gotten her alone and touched her inappropriately.

Of course, this launched an investigation and caused a scandal. The teacher was, of course, innocent. But investigations like these were career-enders, especially since security cameras and the like were uncommon in those days. The teacher decided to retire, despite my mom being a witness and testifying in her favor. She was not found guilty, thankfully, but it still meant that my whole class ended up losing her as our teacher.

There were unexpected consequences for [Bully], though. While I wasn’t very aware of the legal aspect, I was aware that the entire Mom’s Club became coldly polite to [Bully]. And she noticed. So, she decided to confront my mom one Friday with a bunch of her friends with her. It was, of course, also in front of a lot of other fellow students who were there for the popcorn.

Bully: *To my mom* “Mrs. [Last Name], why don’t you like me anymore?”

Mom: “Because you’re not a nice person, [Bully].”

Bully: *Shocked* “Yes, I am! I’m nice!”

Mom: “You lied about Mrs. [Teacher] touching you. Nice people don’t lie like that and get other people hurt.”

Bully: “I didn’t lie!”

Mom: “[Bully], I was right there next to you on the playground when you bragged to your friends about it. You said, ‘I can do whatever I want, and if I get in trouble, I can just get them in trouble like Mrs. [Teacher]. My mom told me how to do it: I just have to lie about her touching me. And now that she’s gone, they all know that I can do it to anyone else I want.’ You did lie, and you were proud of getting her in trouble. Nice people don’t do that.”

[Bully] went very quiet.

Mom: “Now, do you want to get popcorn or not?”

[Bully] quietly accepted the popcorn and walked away.

Of course, this conversation happened in front of a lot of kids, many of whom [Bully] had made miserable, so of course, it spread very quickly through the student body.

[Bully] got very quiet and didn’t pick on kids anymore because now they had ammo to fire back: “If the Really Nice Mom doesn’t like you, then you did something REALLY bad.” She left the school soon after that. 

It was a harsh lesson for her, and I honestly hope she grew up to be a better person and never tried that tactic again.

Gather around, and let me tell you the story of the classmate from Hell. I am on the autism spectrum. During my senior year in high school, I was part of the school’s news program, as well as a theater kid. In both the news program and theater classes, I had a classmate. We got along well for most of the year — until we didn’t.

For reasons I can’t remember, the classmate started to menace me in the news program’s class, talking s*** about me and kicking my backpack around. I tried to deal with it as best as I could and let it slide off my back so that I wouldn’t worry my mother, but the teachers in the school’s special education program saw what was going on and, while initially respecting my wish not to involve my mother, decided she needed to be made aware of the situation. It was a good decision, in hindsight.

The teachers told this classmate not to bother me anymore, and she retaliated by trying to spread rumors about me. She claimed I tried to have her thrown off of the theater team that would be going to a state competition — a bald-faced lie. Ironically, as a result of her continuing to menace me, she actually was thrown off the theater team before we went to state, where I wound up winning “Best In State Actor”.

She was certain not to bother me after that.

The last I remember anything about her, she had been hired at a call center where my mother worked. Mum made certain to introduce herself to her as “[My Name]’s mother” and make it awkward for her.

DISCLAIMER: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

I’ve had fibromyalgia since I was eight years old. After constant trial and error tests of over-the-counter pain medication, I find that Midol (and its generic) works best for my symptoms.

For those not familiar with Midol, it is normally marketed as period relief, and it contains acetaminophen (for pain), caffeine (for bloating), and an over-the-counter antihistamine (for other various symptoms). It is 100% safe for men to take.

I’m moving between classes, and I duck into a stairwell to take two tablets and wash them down with some water. Another student sees me and instantly demands some.

Me: “Sorry, but you have to go to the nurse. I’m not allowed to share these.”

Student: “But I have a headache.”

Me: “If I get caught giving these out, they won’t let me have them anymore. Sorry, but you need to see the nurse.”

He lunges and grabs the bottle out of my hand, and then he moves back out of reach and uses one hand to continuously push me away while he looks at the bottle. Suddenly, he stops and chucks the bottle at my face.

Student: “Stupid b****! You were gonna let me take hormones.”

Me: “No… I… What?”

Student: “This is for periods; it’s got hormones in it.”

Me: “It does not. Leave me alone.”

I clutch the bottle to my chest and get away as quickly as possible.

During lunch, a boy who is neither friendly nor unfriendly to me comes up to talk to me.

Boy: “Hey, I just wanted to let you know that [Student] in Group B is telling everyone you tried to give him drugs to shrink his d**k.”

Me: “What? No, he tried to steal my Midol. It’s just painkillers; it can’t do that.”

Boy: “You need to go to the office and tell them.”

By now, my anxiety is an eleven, so I grab my things and go to the office. The only person in is the receptionist, and I ask her if there’s anyone in administration I can talk to.

Receptionist: “Honey, they’re all out to lunch. Is everything okay?”

Me: “[Student] tried to take my Midol, and when I wouldn’t let him have it, he started telling everyone I had drugs that would shrink his penis and tried to make him take them.”

Receptionist: “What? Oh, honey, he’s an idiot. You sit right over there, and as soon as somebody comes back, we’ll get it taken care of. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you get a pass for your next class.”

So, I sit in the office for about half an hour, and the principal finally returns. Right away, the receptionist waves him over and explains the issue.

Principal: “May I see the bottle of medication?”

I hand it over. He scans the active ingredients and directions and hands it back.

Principal: “And your parents have filled out all the paperwork with the nurse so that you can have that on hand?”

Me: “Yes, sir.”

Principal: “I’ll talk to [Student]. Wait here.”

[Student] was called down to the principal’s office. I don’t know what was said inside, but he stormed out of the office after maybe twenty minutes, gave me a death glare, and stormed out of the room.

Unfortunately, the damage was done, and in the next month, a rumor spread around the school that period medications, like Midol, contained female hormones. By the time I moved on to high school, the younger classes had picked it up, and incoming freshmen came in with that idea, as well. It kind of became one of our school’s urban legends.

This was in the early 2000s, so by now, with the spread of the Internet, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot more people believed this, which is sad because the medication works wonders for my fibromyalgia, and I wouldn’t want male sufferers to be discouraged from taking it.