During lunch, the Cult of Teddy Ruxpin sat at our table in the cafeteria and discussed the important matters of the day, like which Sex Pistol was more of an anarchist.
“Sid was a true anarchist,” Vic argued.
“But Johnny Rotten wrote all the lyrics,” Brett pointed out.
“Johnny was only a fashionista with a reggae bent. Fuck PIL! Sid was the real rebel in the group.”
“But Sid couldn’t even play his instrument.”
“Exactly! That’s a true anarchist. Sid was the spirit of the band. Johnny Rotten was just the voice. The message was all Sid’s, even before he joined the band. Without him there would never have been—” Vic stopped short.
Four burly jocks in letterman jackets walked up to our table.
“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” one of the guys said. “You the ones been writing all that Teddy Ruxpin Rules crap around school?”
We snickered at the way he said Teddy Ruxpin with such disdain in his country drawl.
“What y’all doing is blasphemy,” he added. “The only one that rules is God.”
Vic and I smirked while Brett laughed out loud.
“You think that’s funny, freak?” He got in Brett’s face. “Is God funny to you?”
“It’s kind of funny, yeah,” Brett said.
“I think we need to have a little chat.” The guy grabbed Brett by the collar and pulled him through a side door.
The other jocks stood over Vic and me in case we tried to make a move.
“What’s your problem?” Vic demanded.
“You’re my problem, loser.”
“You shouldn’t be mixed up with these two space-cases,” one of the jocks told me. “We thought you were smarter than that.”
I was surprised they had noticed me. A little flattered even. But I said, “I guess I’m not that smart after all.”
In the corner of my eye, obscured in the small frosted glass of the door, I saw a flurry of movement outside.
A few seconds later, Brett came back in, his face drawn up. He walked past us without saying a word.
“Hey!” Vic and I ran after him. “Slow down, man. What happened?”
“The fucker punched me!” Brett said over his shoulder and kept moving.
“That’s fucked up!” I told Vic. “We should do something.”
“What’s the point? It’s not going to change anything.”
I looked back at the jocks, high-fiving each other.
“Motherfuckers,” I said under my breath.
From that day on, I became the self-appointed Minister of Propaganda for the Cult of Teddy Ruxpin. I spent most of my class time coming up with new slogans like, “Teddy Ruxpin Died for Your Sins,” “Praise Be To Teddy Ruxpin” and “If I Were A Stuffed Bear I Would Be Teddy Ruxpin.”
Within a week, Teddy Ruxpin related graffiti around campus quadrupled.
(Read more about “The Cult of Teddy Ruxpin” here.)