In Tuition, part. 2

It seems the headmaster at this particular private high school hadn’t approved of some of our material. We couldn’t imagine what he was referring to, since we go out of our way to clean up shows for younger audiences, replacing every “shit” with a “crap.” Turns out he didn’t like our material about him.

After all the dangerous ad-libbing we’ve done in our career (making fun of Southern accents in the South, patronizing boisterous audience members who later turn out to be mentally challenged), I couldn’t believe this was the chicken that had come home to roost.

All we’d done was compare the headmaster to a very popular Hollywood actor. One who most people consider to be attractive, charismatic and successful, except for a recent suicide attempt. It paled in comparison to the time we made fun of the president of Vermont Technical College, only to have him stand up from the audience, walk on stage, and eat a marshmallow off the floor that had just been in my nose. And if anything from the show had been offensive, it should have been when Seth made a wacky exit through the empty baptism pool behind the altar that served as our stage.

We apologized. He said it was “too late.”

However, it was not too late to print up T-shirts of his face photoshopped onto the actor's body, and to then send a few hundred to the boy’s dorm. We didn't, but we might as well have. Having gone to private school, I've learned that all you have to do to make amends with the administration is to donate something with your name on it. Late Night Players wrestling team codpieces, anyone?