Dealing With Idiots | Friday | Period 4 (Session 13)

[prof_of_cunning]

"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!]