Everything I know about teenagers these days would fit inside a Scooby Doo lunchbox, the old metal one with the thermos secured with a buckle. No matter what you put inside that lunchbox, it will always smell like a soggy tuna sandwich.

By the way, does anyone want my orange?

But, yeah. I don’t know much about the lifestyles of yoots these days, and why should I? We’re not hanging out. They don’t invite me to their ill parties where things are going off and peeps are getting merked and whatnot. They wear their baseball caps sideways; I wear mine straight. I’m not all up in their business; they’re not all up in mine.

It’s a good system. If I knew any teenagers personally, I’m sure they would agree.

Everything was fine until I sassed the teacher.

Her name is Miss Snodgrass (no, it isn’t) and her first email to me was warm and polite. She wanted me to come speak to her middle school students about reading, writing and other life-changing concepts like that. By the end of my lecture, the kids would be completely transformed. They would climb to the tops of their desks and declare, “O Captain! My Captain!” and we’d have to have them examined for possible head injuries, because that kind of behavior just ain’t right.

It sounded wonderful. A win-win-win situation. Only, I couldn’t do it because I have this rare affliction that causes me to shake, stutter and wet myself when I get up before large groups of people, especially teenagers because — let’s be honest — all teenagers are like those kids from “Children of the Corn.” One minute I’m telling them about story arc and plot devices, concepts I only dimly understand myself, and the next, I’m strapped to a giant cross in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield.

Who needs it?

So I declined the invitation with my usual grace and diplomacy. “I’m sorry, Miss Snodgrass. I’m pretty sure that’s the day I’ll be getting stung by a blowfish. A real pity because speaking to a class of 50 demented schoolkids in a cornfield sounds just delightful.”

I’m awesome at making up excuses. You wish you were me.

Unfortunately, Miss Snodgrass saw through that airtight dodge and she’s been on my case ever since. Miss Snodgrass is suddenly every teacher I managed to offend during my own teen years through a series of unfortunate events that were totally not my fault.

“I am trying to teach my students that being a good public speaker is essential in life, so you can’t get away with this,” she wrote. “You have something rare to offer and you owe it to your public to share your gift — you know, giving back? The only way you’ll get good at it is to do it over and over. I will go with you for emotional support to suppress the hives if you want.”

I like Miss Snodgrass quite a lot. She fights for her students and is even willing to hold my hand during the shake/stutter/pee episodes that would surely follow a speaking engagement. It’s noble and I admire her a great deal, which means now I have to go out and get an actual blowfish and let it sting me for real.

In the meantime, Miss Snodgrass likes to use my weekly column as an education tool. Once I got past laughing things out of my nose over this, I was quite touched.

“Remember that I am continuing to read your columns (the appropriate ones or ones that I can easily edit with whiteout) with my middle schoolers to promote expository reading and literary techniques (even if the writer won’t come in and talk to them),” she says, “so I’ll be watching this summer for particularly engaging ones. Can you write about cellphones, Justin Bieber, bullying, or something adolescent of your choice? That’s only if you run out of other ideas …which seems to happen sometimes.”

Does Miss Snodgrass have my number, or what?

But I am all about compromise so in lieu of speaking to her class (I just threw up a little thinking about it), I figure I can at least touch on the above ideas.

Cellphones. Here, Miss Snodgrass is no doubt expecting me to rail on the many nuisances that come with the latest technology. Sorry, toots. As the proud owner of a Samsung Galaxy SIII (rooted, with many custom ROMs), I fully support a teenager’s right to completely ignore all facets of the grown-up world by playing Angry Birds for 18 hours a day.

Justin Bieber. All I know about this mop-headed lad is that his life was tragically cut short when he choked to death while eating Pop Rocks with Pepsi. Plus, I think he was in some cereal commercial or something. Also, he has a hook for a hand and those calls are coming from inside the house.

Bullying. As far as I recall, we didn’t have bullies at Waterville Junior High School. Of course, your kids should bear in mind that back then, Waterville Junior High was a one-room schoolhouse where all the boys wore bow-ties and the girls wore skirts. To get to the schoolhouse, we had to walk uphill both ways. We ate nothing but gruel and if we were bad, the teacher would send us out to get a ‘switch’ with which she would whack our buttocks. Those were simpler times.

If there is one sincere thing I could pass along to the yoots of the day, it is this: When an old person (anyone above 25) advises you to enjoy your young years because they pass quickly, brah, you should heed those words. Of the many, many, many annoying things old people told me when I was a kid, nothing proved as devastatingly true as this. Your youth is going to pass you by in such a blur, it will leave you dazed. You will go to bed a hedonistic teenager and wake up a 40-year-old with a mortgage, a bald spot and probably an ulcer.

Also, eat your vegetables and always count your change.

And that, my young friends, is all the wisdom I have to impart. If I were to come and speak to this class directly, the lecture would have been over in 30 seconds, leaving us with 44 minutes of uncomfortable silence and a vague smell of pee coming from the front of the room.

Please enjoy your lives. Please work as hard as you play.

Please, please, please don’t put me in the corn.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can request a speaking engagement (complete with pee smell) at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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