Teenagers Are Retarded: An Investigative Report

I look deep into the eyes of every kid in the classroom in turn, earning their trust individually with the iron-willed, unflappable honesty of my gaze. My gaze could cut diamonds. My gaze could talk its way out of goddamn prison.

“I want you kids to know that my door is always open,” I say, leaning on my desk. “If for any reason — for any reason — you want to get high, I want you to come to me first. I’ll match whatever price you’re paying right now. That’s how serious I am about this.” I am confident this offer will earn me that most elusive of treasures when dealing with the modern American teenager: respect.

And possibly even tail, which I won’t lie to you, would be nice. Though given some of the mutts in the Grade 10 English class at Fairfield High School in upper New York State, I’m not exactly crossing my fingers on that one.

But mostly, I’m just trying to blend in. These kids need to think of me as a substitute English teacher — and not the most insightful and, yes, bangable journalist on the Western hemisphere — if I’m going to be able to exploit them for my article and get the investigative goods for my website.

My name is Jay Pinkerton. I am an online journalist and an internet sensation. And I am deep undercover as a teacher in the high schools of America.

One of the beefy kids in the back actually laughs at my generous offer to sell them discounted drugs. If this isn’t proof of the gradual dumbing-down of America, I don’t know what is — apparently scoring cheap hash off your teacher isn’t cool. Idiot. If someone was offering me crack rock at $60 a half-gram I’d buy from Hitler. That’s just buddy prices. But teenagers are apparently all about image first, getting cheap rock second. I weep for the children of tomorrow, I really do.

From his posture and the sheer volume of sports clothing hanging off his chubby frame, I peg him as one of the popular, ringleader teens. How anyone could pack away that many Burger King Whoppers and retain cool status is beyond me. Evidently you can still sink baskets with a fat ass and flabby ham-arms. I’m sizing him up as soon as he speaks. I could take him.

“Like I’m gonna buy drugs from you, narc,” says chubby cool kid.

Narc? I think. You fat-shit bastard.

“Narc?” I say. “You fat-shit bastard.” Here I am offering to sell drugs, at competitive rates, and these ingrates don’t even recognize the sacrifice at play here. Everything I deal today is coming out of my private stash.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he says, crossing his arms. A titter from the rest of the class. “You gonna send me to the Principal’s Office, narc?”

I dive across three desks and strangle the P. Diddy out of him. Three students try pull my hands off his big neck.

* * *In a just and fair world I wouldn’t be in some shitty upstate high school masquerading as an English teacher and strangling some punk student, but rather hanging around on the set of some film translation of one of my best-selling novels, boning the hell out of Katie Holmes. In fact this had been the entire plan all along — a plan that hit a small snag six months ago when my first novel, Murder Sandwich, hit store bookshelves all over the country and, with the exception of five copies, stayed there. I would point out to my critics that Murder Sandwich did nonetheless break several records — for instance, I am currently in the Guinness Book of World Records for having written a novel whose unsold copies currently take up something like 20% of all bookstore shelf space in the country.

But then, I blame the critics in the first place. According to my agent, the book was singularly awful, but I still maintain that awful books fly off the shelves every day. Mine would have too, if the critics hadn’t leapt all over me. Read some of these quotes:

“Murder Sandwich was so bad my legs exploded.”
- Benito Mussolini (Clone #4009)

It’s admittedly pure conjecture on my part that the reviewers quoted above are evil clones of Mussolini; however, I invite you to ask yourself who else would be capable of that kind of merciless slaughter. The worst part is that those were the best pullquotes, and ended up on the dust jacket. In my opinion, that was a mistake — but the publishers felt that putting glowing quotes from me on the cover of my own book might be seen as excessive.

With my novel-writing career temporarily on hold, it was back to investigative journalism to pay the rent. Sadly, after I’d found out I’d be getting Murder Sandwich published, I’d made it a point to call every one of my old editors and rub my privates on the phone until they hung up. Though I hadn’t realized it at the time, the move had severely limited the number of people currently willing to admit I was alive. Except for JayPinkerton.com, my website, and also shining beacon of luminescent truth and online beauty.

My last piece of investigative journalism had found me deep undercover looking for hardcore fans’ reactions to the film Sin City. While of course ridiculously thought-provoking and staggering with emotional weight, the article to my mind had one flaw: namely, that it forced me to hang out in a comic book shop with nerds.

So when I hunted around for another assignment, one single guideline led my way from the darkness: if I was going to be doing any more undercover work with young American adults and their thoughts on popular culture, I would be doing so in an environment that allowed me the opportunity to check out — and nab meaty handfuls of — ass.

My agent Karla suggested an open-ended piece; that I infiltrate a typical American high school and find out firsthand what makes the kids tick, then perhaps have sex with them. She painted the picture. “It’d be interesting if you found out what the ‘buzz’ is with kids today. What makes them tick? What are they watching? What are they reading?”

“Teenagers read?” I asked.

“Chuck Pahliunuk and Anne Rice, mostly,” Karla responded.

“God Jesus, people actually read Anne Rice novels? I thought those were joke gifts.” The import of this sinks in. “And you want me to mingle with these people? You’re throwing me to the fucking wolves.”

“I found you the perfect high school in upstate Illinois,” explained Karla. “They don’t check backgrounds and the Principal’s a drunk, so it should be a breeze sneaking you in.”

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I said. “But I’ll have to brush up on my rock groups. And buy phat pants. So I’ll need an expense account. Have you contacted any publishers on this?”

“Actually… I was thinking you could go undercover as a substitute teacher.”

“What?” I said. “Substitute teachers aren’t cool. How am I supposed to gain the kids’ trust in bephatted pants if I’m a teacher? Kids kill teachers now, don’t they?”

“Jay, you’re almost thirty.”

“I’m almost twenty-nine,” I corrected. “Twenty-PHAT-nine.”

“Jay, you’re going in as a substitute teacher.”

“Fine,” I said, pouting. “But I at least get to pick my undercover name.”

“Fine,” said Karla, pulling out an application form. “Last name?”

“David Lee Roth. First name: Diamond.”

I may have been imagining things, but I could have sworn I detected a slight pause and a sigh as Karla read my undercover name back to me. “Professor Diamond David Lee Roth.”

I made the Devil Sign to signify my approval.

“Did you have a back-up name we could use if th—”

“Fabio Cockrockington,” I said without hesitating.

“Professor Roth,” said Karla, filling in the application form. I gave another Devil Sign.

* * *The other students pull me off of the chubby kid. I straighten my tie, trying to make it look like I’d accidentally slipped over the three desks and had innocently grabbed chubby’s throat to steady myself. I’m darting glances around to see if anyone’s buying it, but everyone’s still frozen in shock, so it’s hard to read them.

“Is he alright?” I ask.

“I think he’s dead, Professor Roth,” says a blonde girl with braces, her eyes starting to pool up with tears.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking about jail. “Alright, class — time to learn a new word. Who here knows what ‘alibi’ means?”

CLICK HERE FOR PART II: DEAD STUDENTS SOCIETY