School Clubs: An Exercise in French Bureaucracy

The door stands open before you. With a long, heavy-hearted sigh you cross the threshold, and the effects are immediate. In an attempt to protect itself, the brain shuts down all thinking functions and your eyes glaze over to prevent the overflow of senseless occipital information. Welcome to a generic school club meeting, hell to thinkers and doers alike. In fact, you have stumbled into the only aboveground circle of hell; one which that bastard Alighieri never warned us about, and one you must conquer on the way to college: clubs.

"I apologize, but this rock drew my attention. Warnings are so mainstream."

The Club

Let’s distinguish right off the bat my nefarious intentions: to mock and lampoon every single school club that ever existed and currently exists. This will be achieved with a vague, easily convicted “straw” club- one which commits most imaginable lame school club violations (a comprehensive list of these exists).  The purpose of this generic club remains amorphous: at one point, someone wrote up a mission statement purely by accident or as a gag, and it was adopted. Since then, someone once took up an initiative to rewrite it (2/3 vote required to approve it, nonconsent counts as an affirmative vote… Unanimously passed) and rechristened it as the Club Constitution! But, a week later, they lost it and forgot about it. The formation of the club advented after a poor judgement call: that boring kid had a lot of free time and/or thought someone else likes Manchurain flower power anime. (They don’t.)

Imagine this, but Manchurian. And anime.

The Officers

Since a minority of the majority of the students in your school know your exist, and everyone else stares at you dumbfounded when you mention it (this is why that weird kid Dale is your only friend. Who names their son Dale, anyway?) But this widespread dearth of knowledge about your club results in a minimal nucleus of the club. Your officers, much like the French Army, were pulled out of the nearest byway and ceremonially inducted. They’re still not sure what’s going on, compounded by the fact that they can’t speak English. The club officers are disorganized, misinformed, and generally lost. The information for meetings (hosted once a month) spreads like burning oil on top of water: haphazardly, randomly, and somehow you’ll burn your hand off… trust me, it happens. In movies, ragtag bunches of losers coming together show off their cuteness and handiness together. For your club, the reality remains much harsher: a complete disaster. It’s worse than a train wreck because you have to look away.

Still more clear than the difference between code yellow and code orange.

The Meetings

Rewind to the first few sentences of the intro: eyes glazing over, fly open (you didn’t notice it all day, haha, loser) and brain malfunctioning like it always does. Everyone, or all three people present,  sit down at a single table, marooned in a forlorn sea of dusty tables and, antique chairs, and grimy instruments. Who gave you the key to the basement’s dungeon’s storage closet, anyway? The illy dresses officers give their reports: the plantain sale generated twelve ducats, emails were sent to the Albanian administration, and someone else couldn’t find their shoes this morning. Where’d that fizzled dud of a president go, anyway? After the perfunctory reports, everyone generally grumbles and complains about how everything could be better. “We didn’t have any lira to refund ducats.” “C’mon guys, I know one of you stole my shoes.” “Ou suis-je? Comment est-que je me trouve la?... Messieurs?” “If only he wasn’t French…”

Just standard procedure at our meetings. Move along.

The Moderator

In this particular school, every club requires a moderator. Since not very many educators seem interested in Manchurian Flower-Power Anime (they’re missing out) , the bottom of the barrel was the only place to go. This can go either way: in movies, the quirky teachers and/or janitors end up being super cool and teaching everyone to kick butt (We’re looking at you, Karate Kid). In the real world, quirky teachers and janitors are washout pedophiles and failed gold prospectors who fell off waterfalls. They’re the last chapter of Indiana Jones incarnate. When this moderator bothers coming to the club, he either gets lost or walks in right after  you managed to put that fire out. Who knew that Purell-soaked clothing was flammable?... or inflammable. Either way, Petey probably got rid of any microbes and bacteria stupid enough to live on his (charred) skin. 

"Fire? That looks like fun. Let me try."

Why are you in this club? And why is Manchurian Flower-Power Anime a thing? Do this many varieties of anime truly exist? I’ll be back later. I need to find out what happens to Gyoo-kaiy-sankuro-jojojojoma as he soars through the valley of dandelion crystals.

You may not see Gyoo-kaiy, but he's there. Believe me.