((Insert appropriate noun here))head that I am...

It was supposed to be a walk in the park for a Monday morning lesson.

Famous last words.

I gave them Old English riddles out of the Exeter Book. It's the ultimate sleight-of-hand; getting through British literature and history is an uphill slog for a lot of these guys. Oh, I put on my dog and pony show to be sure, finding connections with their own mundane lives and the like, but in the beginning, it's all guts, glory and gold (Beowulf, Deor and other titles that, in my infinite stubbornness, I do not take off the syllabus). Today, it was just a riddle. A stinking riddle. That's it.

I saw a tree towering in the forest,
Bright with branches, a blooming wood,
Basking in joy. It was nurtured by water,
Nursed by soil, till strong in years,
Its fate snapped, turned savage--
It suffered slash, rip, wound
Was stripped in misery, chained dumb,
Its body bound, its head wrapped
In iron trim. Now it muscles a road
With head-might for another grim warrior--
Together they plunder the hoard in a storm
Of battle. The first warrior swings
Through dense threat, head-strong,
While the second follows, fierce and swift.

In case you're a complete, you know, idiot, the answer is a "battering ram."

"A what?" rumbled a history buff in the front row.

I made idiotic pantomimes with my arms. "A battering ram. For god's sake, you know, one of those large rams made from a tree you used to bust through a castle door!" Turning impatiently, I went to the board to do another one of my Award Winning Illustrations:

"See? They tied the ram to a fulcrum, and then swung it against the door."

"Yeah, but the riddle says its head was wrapped in iron. What the hell kind of tree is that?"

"No, see, Johnny, you've got it wrong. Because you're, you know, an idiot. They used metal to gild the head, so the ram would have more weight."



Johnny starts to get it. So do the wits in the back row. Everyone is getting it except for your Friendly Neighborhood English teacher, who decides they're just too groggy from the weekend to grok the idea of ironwork in the fifth century. So he adds the coup de grace:



That little mark on the tip was as far as I got. Then I stopped. Realized what I had drawn. Didn't realize earlier because I'm, you know, an idiot.

Cursed, erased hurriedly.

Too late. Bedlam.

Later, a colleague stopped me in the hall. "They really sounded involved last hour," she said, in a tone one part sarcastic, two parts disbelief. "How did you get them so engaged?"

Look at me, honey. What do you think?

"Oh. Another mistaken phallic entendre?"

Damn right.