Today, class was once again meeting in the weird head-fucky place that normal teachers just called the Danger Shop. And the weird hea- Danger Shop was made up to look like the enormous lawn of a gigantic estate. The mansion was way off in the distance; you people were cluttered around a garden, and probably squinting at all of that super-bright sunlight. Realism, yay!

On two lounge chairs under a gigantic beach umbrella you would find the two most unqualified teachers on the entire Eastern seaboard, wearing sunglasses and sipping lemonade.

“We should have brought a fan out here,” Pam opined. Exactly where were you going to plug it in, Pam?

"If one of you little jackasses is worried about your grade or something, you can fan us," Cheryl decided, turning to the class. "Also hi. It's gardening season or whatever, right? You plant things in the spring?"

Yes, Cheryl, welcome to the idea of seasons. Everyone else's been here since about first grade.

"Anyway. Anyone can garden, as long as you can wear denim well." Because that was a main requirement for most things.

“Oooooh, those overalls,” Pam sighed. “Gardening’s, like, super popular among illegal Mexicans. You don’t need to habla ingles well in order to pull weeds.”

Congratulations, Pam, on completely ignoring the many real concerns about the plight of undocumented workers, and bypassing those in favor of good ol’ racism!

“And that’s what you’re doing today!” Pam continued, brightly. “Pulling weeds, I mean. Not hablaing ingles. You can talk whatever you want while you do it, but get some overalls on and get to pullin’, because those weeds aren’t gonna yank themselves out.”

"And more extra credit," Cheryl added, grandly gesturing to a row of bushes, "if you make topiaries while you're out there. Person who makes me laugh the hardest gets an A for today."

Like they were graded. Ever. On anything.

“And don’t forget to bring me refills on this lemonade,” Pam said, rattling her glass. “‘Cause I’m not getting up from this chair for jack shit.”