School pictures.
Let's see if I slipped another one past 'em.
And fourth grade will forever be the year I had a goatee.
- Here's mine. - Ooh. The mousse is loose.
I teased those bangs till they begged for mercy.
Tammy, your lips are so puffy.
Yeah, duh. I timed my shellfish allergy just right.
Damn, J-Ju, are those glossy, or are you just glowing?
Thanks, Zeke. You look fine.
Gee, simmer down!
Hi, Jimmy Jr. Can I get one of those?
Oh, sure, Tina. I guess I should take one of yours, then.
Uh, absolutely. Here you go.
This is a happy face with glasses
drawn on a Post-it Note.
Good eye. I, uh, don't have any pictures. Sorry.
Oh, that's okay.
Taking mine back.
Ugh, I can't believe I missed picture day again.
It's happened every single year,
so at least you have a streak going.
Damn flu season.
You sure you're well enough for picture day, sweetie?
I'm fine.
You sure you're well...
You sure you're...
I made it! I finally made it!
- I'm having my picture taken. - Here we go.
I feel like I'm passing through Wagstaff
without leaving a mark.
Other kids have school records, plaques.
What's my legacy going to be?
There was that time you got tangled in a jump rope
for five hours.
You were our school's Baby Jessica.
All students, let's get ready to assemble!
Let's go.
- Legacy stuff.
Hey, Bob,
what you cleaning up over there, your drool,
over my classy new awning?
Yeah, I noticed, Jimmy.
You wanted it that ugly, I guess?
It's big and shiny, like your bald spot.
Male-pattern baldness.
I've got it, too, I think.
It's made from old Ferrari bumpers.
I couldn't care less, Jimmy. I'm yawning.
I'm yawning at your awning.
What's going on?
Ooh, nice awning.
Shiny.
Hey, Bob, you want my old piece of crap one for your dump?
Bob, free awning.
Lin, he's insulting us.
Oh, yeah, he is. I don't even notice anymore.
Peter Pescadero has won
the Wagstaff checkers tournament.
I will now present him with this trophy of a giant checker,
which is definitely not a hockey puck from lost and found.
Damn, that's a nice checker.
Now for the big news.
Today I'm announcing a surprise forced retirement.
You sons of bitches. This is how you spring it on me?
I'm not going anywhere.
- No, no, no, Ms. Labonz, not you.
I'm talking about the Wagstaff school song
that we Whalers have sung for decades
without fully appreciating how some of the words
were a bit... raw.
We're the Whalers, we hunt in our whale boats
We row across the water, and then begin the slaughter
With our harpoons, we stab them in the throats
We hack them into pieces, and then we go to recess.
I always thought it was kind of jazzy.
I proposed to Principal Spoors via e-mail
an all-school song contest to choose a new song,
and I took his non-reply as a yes.
So, on Friday, all you aspiring songwriters
will perform your songs,
and the winner will be determined by
this applause meter, purchased by me on eBay
when I was on pain medication after oral surgery.
- Gross. - The most clap-worthy song will become
the official anthem of Wagstaff,
and its writer will become immortal.
We'll sing it forever or till this place is
inevitably turned into condos.
Plus, you'll get your name on this plaque.
Plaque. Condos. Immortality.
Man, this kid Tina Belcher really left her mark.
Yeah, it's 140 years later and we're still talking about it.
Also, barrettes are still cool.