Fandom High School

"There is no final exam," said Edmund, hands clasped behind his back, "Because I don't care enough to write one. You all passed, because I don't care enough to spend the time required to explain to the lovely but utterly terrifying Mrs. Winchester why I failed you. Those of you who survived the previous class without verbal or culinary abuse of the television screen passed with an A; the rest of you got whatever mark Baldrick scribbled beside your name, as an object lesson on the general topic of this class."

Baldrick grinned and waved a red Sharpie in the air. If the red marks on his nose seemed to indicate that half the ink had been inhaled straight up it, would you honestly be able to discern any difference in his behavior to verify your theory?

"That means most of you got off with a B, as it's one of the two letters he actually knows how to write; a few of you landed an S, which you're welcome to tell your parents stands for superlative, if you can pronounce it. Sorry, Wyndam-Pryce--" No, he wasn't. "You appear to have passed with a misshapen sketch of a turnip. Good luck explaining that one."

"For our final class, rather than wasting time and my non-existent limited faith in humanity determining whether you've retained anything I've taught you, we'll touch on one of the few positives to a world full of morons: taking advantage of them. Whether they're as mindless as Baldrick here, or just smart enough to be dangerous because of how smart they think they are, there's always a way to profit from the stupidity around you. Trick them out of their lunch. Trick them out of, more importantly, their money, through wagers, shady sales agreements, and glorious fraud of all sorts. Get them to do what you want them to do by means fair and foul -- you can use what I believe they now call 'reverse psychology' for the stubborn sorts, or, one of my personal favourites, just convince them it was their idea all along, because you're obviously not brilliant enough to have come up with it."

"So. Share one method for profiting from the stupidity around you in your day to day life, and then you're free to flee. This would be where I offer my usual suggestion of getting out now, if the word wrong is lumbering anywhere near the direction of the tip of your tongue, but given you've stuck around this long, it seems a bit superfluous. As for my own example..." It was a very, very nasty grin. "As soon as my bags are packed, I'm off to convince the Prince of Wales that he needs to sleep with two ravishing women in their murderously overprotective uncle's ancestral manor home. I believe the extent of my effort will be making him aware that the ladies in question exist."

[OOC: Oooooopen! He abuses because he loves, Wes. ...No, he doesn't. But he abuses because I love!]

"The first person to say anything about my ears gets to sit next to Baldrick for the entire class."

This would be punishment enough on a normal day. Today, when Baldrick waved and gave a yellow-toothed grin to the students, it was followed by, "...HICCUP!"

And a small ball of fire bounced out of his mouth towards Edmund, who leapt atop his desk in the nick of time, shooting back... only a withering glare. "Don't make me hit you with my tail again, Balders." Dignity, Dignity at all costs. He straightened up and struck a manly heroic pose atop the desk, like he'd always intended to do that.

"This is my Horatio Nelson impression; some would say the lack of pigeons crapping on my head makes it less realistic, but I'm prepared to trade verisimilitude for hygiene. I'm also not standing atop an overcompensatory granite column that, quelle surprise, is actually several feet shorter than advertised for the last two hundred years." Also, Lord Nelson didn't have raccoon ears. Probably. Given the size of his hat, who could tell. He could be wearing a rhinoceros on his head for all Edmund knew. "I do share a rather unfortunate tendency toward seasickness with the man, but one of us had the brains to avoid attempting to parlay that into an illustrious naval career."

The eyerolling would have been audible if Baldrick hadn't hiccupped over it and singed his own hand as he went to cover his mouth. Edmund jumped down from the desk without giving him more than a glance, and addressed the class from a less statuesque height.

"My point, and I do have one, is that, as some of my country's less ungrateful colonials have immortalised in obnoxiously catchy song, history is made by stupid people. Some of them become famous because of their idiocy -- I'm fairly certain Baldrick will have a place in the annals of FOR GOD'S SAKE, BALDRICK, AIM AT THE WASTEBIN! ...something. If I don't kill him first. Others seem to succeed despite it, like a certain Hanoverian prince whose inability to even button his trousers on his own could have resulted in his premature death by natural selection any number of times, but instead netted him an entire era and an ironically well-mannered sub-genre of romance novels named after him."

Edmund leaned back against the desk. "I've given you two of mine, though trust me, there's plenty more where those came from. Now tell us yours."

[OOC: OCD on ze way up, post open!]

Today, Baldrick was back in the classroom, but he looked a little different than usual. (Sadly, he didn't smell a little different than usual.) He was wearing a powdered white wig, one of Blackadder's more threadbare frock coats, and the same pair of shiny blue pantaloons that Edmund had tried to get his students to try on during the very first class.

"Since today's subject is maintaining one's sanity in the face of idiots one can't openly abuse," Edmund said, standing just out of whiffing distance and pointing at his dogsbody, "Baldrick is obviously not the most accurate example, so he's standing in for someone who is. In this case, he's pretending to be royalty as well as my boss, but you needn't go that far to find someone stupid in a position of power, as we discussed last week."

"So. How to express one's frustrations - or get what one desires - when one can't do it openly?" Edmund flicked his hand through the air like he was about to produce a silk rose from his sleeve. "Passive-aggression via the stealth insult, of course. One of the few pleasant things about idiots in power is that the more idiotic they are, the less likely that they will be aware that you're insulting them. In that sense, Baldrick -- pardon me, Prince George -- is an outstanding assistant today."

"Oh, Mister Blackadder, truly?" Baldrick's sooty hand covered his heart. "Nobody's ever told me I helped them before!"

Edmund's eyebrow lifted by the smallest fraction of a millimetre. "You shock me, Your Highness."

He should have known better than to expect Baldrick to remember he was supposed to be in character - though to be fair, drop the Mister and substitute Bladders and it still made a halfway decent impersonation.

"I'll remember it to my dying day!"

"Please accept my sincerest hopes that I live to see that vow come true."

"You know, you're never this nice to me when I'm being me..." Baldrick complained, tugging awkwardly on his wig.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "You don't pay me, and your socks have very little resale value." To his class, he said, "So, the object here is to express your negative opinions without your personal imbecile realizing he's being derided -- if you're very good at it, he might even think it's a compliment."

[Open!]

Communications had been handwavily sent, but just in case they were missed, there was also a note on the door of the usual classroom, directing the students to meet in town at the Mystery Sign Theatre today.

Outside the building, the marquee read: Now Showing: The Petey Sci-Fi Talky Picture

In the lobby outside the auditorium proper, boxes of various supplies were laid out: newspapers, water pistols, party hats, noisemakers, dry rice, toast (someone should have mentioned that it was supposed to be unbuttered, because it...wasn't), small flashlights, rubber gloves, playing cards, bags of confetti, and tiny, incredibly cheap bells (you'd honestly be better off jangling your keys).

Inside the auditorium, there were... a lot of empty seats, and Baldrick at the back in an usher's uniform, not because he had the first clue how to be one, but because it was that or let him dress up in a corset and fishnets, and Edmund wanted to be able to keep his lunch down today. Also, because the usher's uniform was more appropriate for cleaning up afterward.

Edmund stood outside the doors to greet the students as they entered, and hand out an audience participation script. "Don't feel obliged to constrain yourselves to this in your commentary; in fact, there'll be extra credit for saying something cleverer than the thirty-five years of dimwits who came before you managed to come up with." No, there wouldn't.

[Open! Technically only for the DWI students, but if anyone else wants to wander in and watch, feel free.]

Another Baldrick-less class, and a professor who seemed to be trying to make up for it by smelling distinctly of coconut oil. You get your head start on Spring Break by blowing off your Friday classes, he'll do it his way. At least he wasn't in a bathing costume. Yet.

"One of the biggest drawbacks to the famous idiot is also one of the biggest advantages," he began when everyone was settled. "Unless you're unlucky enough to work for one, or have some other personal connection, you can't do anything much about the stupidity. They're not going to hear you when you shout at them, and while you could probably write some strongly-worded correspondence, the chance that they read their own fanmail -- or in the case of certain European royalty, anything that doesn't contain at least a three to one ratio of nude portraiture to words -- is slim to none."

The grin that followed was verging on truly nasty. "On the other hand, that means you can say any bloody thing you like to or about them, because they can't hear you. It won't have any effect on having to live with their political policies or their smarmy mugs slapped up on billboards every time you turn a corner, but ah, catharsis. Plus, depending on where you're doing your pointless railing, you can at least impress other people with your wit and creativity."

"Oh, yes," I he added as an afterthought: "And your post-holiday homework is to bring in a picture of someone you believe falls into that public idiot category -- for target practice."

[OOC: open for bizness!]

"Sadly, yes, it was necessary for Baldrick to return today."

As if any of his students would require an announcement of that fact to be aware of the dull-eyed dungball up at the front of the room near (but not too near) to Edmund's lectern.

"His presence is required because today, we're going to finish off our section on dealing with the very, very stupid that you don't have to suck up to, via a practical exercise in getting them to do something."

"Oi, that's not hard." Baldrick didn't waste time arguing about the very very stupid designation, at least. "I can do plenty of things. I can catch rats... eventually, when they get really old and slow. And I can whistle!" The sound coming out of that mouth in demonstration was almost as foul as the breath coming out of that mouth, possibly because it was accompanied by bits of Baldrick's breakfast -- or possibly bits of his teeth -- also coming out of his mouth.

"No, you can't. Stop that." Edmund banged him once round the head with his own hat before jamming it back down over not at all enough of Baldrick's face. "But thank you for providing us with a helpful example of the need, when dealing with you and those like you, for extreme specificity in one's demands. Here's another: Baldrick, I fancy a cup of tea. Go put the kettle on." Pants and more pants, he'd undercut himself there. "And come back afterwards," he added before Baldrick had made it to the door. "Until he returns, class, you may talk amongst yourselves, take notes, smoke them if you possess them, whatever."

~~~~~~Ten minutes later~~~~~~



Edmund gazed toward the sight in the doorway. "I rest my case. Baldrick, go back to our lodgings, remove the the kettle from your head, and make some tea with it. Wait there until I arrive. Don't drink the tea."

Exeunt Baldrick, teakettle still on his head. "I would have changed the order of the orders there, but I felt the squirrels could use the amusement of following him through town like that," he added. "Your assignment today is to pair up, pretend one of you is Baldrick or a slightly less odious equivalent thereof and practice giving orders whose results won't give you a concussion from the force of bashing your head against a wall. Imitation-Baldricks need not attempt to duplicate the scent, just the cranial capacity."

[OOC: Open and less smelly once Baldrick's gone!]

"Someday, there will be a Baldrick-free class; I'm not just stringing you along," Edmund said once the room was as full as he expected it to get. "Today, however, is not that that day."

It was, however, a slightly more pleasant-scented day as long as one didn't walk too near the scruffy little bugger, because thanks to several weeks of hotel television, Edmund had discovered the wonders of Glade Plug-Ins. One would think he'd hold the television itself at the top of the 21st Century's pinnacle of wonders, but... he lived with Baldrick. Self-dispersing room deodorizer vs. the ability to record astronomically overpaid actors faffing about with mood lighting and background music and watch it over and over? No contest. Which was why Baldrick was standing next to his desk holding one of the former in his hands, attached to an extension cord.

"Last week we began by identifying a particular class of numbskull," Edmund began, then wrinkled his nose and took one more step away from Baldrick, who was thoughtfully providing the realistic whiff of fertilizer that the people at SC Johnson had left out of the Orchard Breeze scent. "Keeping with that theme, today we'll explore two of the basic methods of surviving their presence: ( insults and threats )

[OOC: OCD up, post open, Robert Drake, if you run naked through my class again, I'll fill you so full of lead they could sharpen your head and call you a pencil.]

At the front of the decidedly ordinary classroom stood two men in Regency clothing - if one stretched the definition of man quite a bit for the shorter one. "Good morning; this is Dealing With Idiots class. If you're not meant to be here, you've just failed today's first test of whether you're intelligent enough to take it; get out." Which of course required a sigh and grabbing someone by the collar. "Not you, Baldrick. For once."

Edmund pointed to the small, scruffy, and thoroughly smellable man whose collar he was somewhat gingerly holding. "This is Baldrick, your object lesson. The good news is that he won't be here for every class. The other good news is that I will; my name is Edmund Blackadder. You can call me Mister Blackadder or sir to my face, call me anything you like behind my back, as long as I don't hear about it. Baldrick, what happens if I hear about it?"

Baldrick paused as if trying to recall it from his very small store of available memory, then his face brightened. "You punch me in the kidney?"

"Not always; sometimes I punch you in the face." Edmund released Baldrick's collar and wiped his hand fastidiously on the front of his frock coat. "I'm given to understand that the school has some ridiculous 21st Century rules about teachers meting out physical violence to students, but rest assured I'll find something equally unpleasant to do to you, possibly involving doing Baldrick's laundry by hand."

"...Laundry?"

"It's when you wash your clothes. Not actually a 21st Century concept, just one you've been incapable of grasping for the last thirty-five years." Edmund turned his attention back to the class to add, "With those preliminaries out of the way, let's get on to you. Everybody who isn't an imbecile has to suffer them; I suffer more than most, so I'm uniquely qualified to teach you how to do so -- but there's no point in it if you're not worth the effort, so today is about winnowing the wheat from the--"

"Turnips!"

"......Fine, let's go with that."

[OCD is up - have at it!]