By Emi Gruender
With the Frizz? No way!
The Magic School Bus is not known for its orthodox field trips. This nostalgic TV Show lies very close to my heart as I sit here reminiscing about when the MSB went on a field trip on a CheetoTM through Arthur’s small intestine, or when Arthur’s head froze on the surface of Jupiter. Poor, anxious Arthur cannot seem to catch a break, opening every episode with an iconic line that matches the title of this disquisition. Unfortunately for this ginger-haired human-shaped ball of anxiety, my field trip starring the cast of The Shield will proceed to be nothing like a normal field trip.
To start our adventure, Journalism leaves Room 58 to board the bus only to find that the bus in question is nowhere to be found. In its place lies a 2011 Honda Civic instead, with soiled seats and windows splattered with the excrement of Westmont’s resident seagulls. Ecstatic, the entire 35 person class of Journalism students piles into the Civic; a couple unlucky souls packed into the trunk and a couple others strapped to the roof rack like freshly caught game. With a jolly toot of the horn, our designated chaperone Andy Evans, for today known as Mr. Frizzle, jolts the archaic engine to life.
Averi and Marina Halbert in the front seat grumble something about taking the Batmobile instead, while Mia Hanuska munches on a 92 oz. bag of Safeway carrots. The good old Frizzle notices her ardent carrot munching and chortles joyously.
“Where are we going?” demands Carter Cormier.
“I’m glad you asked,” Frizzle responds. “You’ll see in a moment, children!”
For three days and three nights, our beloved Honda Civic thundered down I-80 at a modest 145 mph, until finally arriving in the beautiful mountain state of Montana. Viciously switching the car into park, Frizzle turns around to his class.
“Now, class. Riddle me this– what season is it?”
“Spring!” shouts Faith Gonia.
“March!” yells Blake Kim and Weston Kelly, obviously a little confused.
“Paprika.” suggests Diego Mantelli.
“Wrong,” Anjali Nayak sneers maliciously. “It’s trout season.”
The Shield collectively groans. We all know that Anjali will stop at nothing to decimate the trout population. California had already taken a hit– Montana was next on the list.
“Correct! However, instead of digesting trout, trout will be digesting us.” With a nod, Frizzle changes gears to a suspicious label called “Trout Food,” which I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before. Our ears popped like a rapidly ascending airplane, we stretched to get a view of the window. We were underwater, in a murky pond. Scum clung to the windows and catfish hovered over the murky floor.
“Everyone hold your breath!” Frizzle crowed, suddenly pressing a large red button labeled CERTAIN DEATH on the dashboard. Suddenly, with a crappy bubble wall transition from a 2010s video editing software, the piece of junk Honda Civic rested on the lake floor. Each student plus Mr. Frizzle/Evans treaded water with a stupid-looking bubble helmet and a bright pink Razor scooter with funny little handlebar tassels.
“Alright everyone– what do you remember about trouts and food?” Frizzle asked with a majestic wave of the hand.
With a sigh, the class recited from memory, “The economy has taken a substantial hit, and times got bad so the trout got sad– this is all Anjali’s fault, and John Lennon must come to save the day.”
“No. They’re omnivores.”
“Oh,” said the class, who didn’t really care.
“Brown trout just love some invertebrate little snacks, and especially crawfish.” Frizzle explained. “Now, I want your best crawfish impression– don’t be intimidated by their size! Remember, meet up by the sunken corpse of our Honda Civic once you’ve promptly toured the trout’s digestive system.”
With that, he turned on his wheel and scoot-swam slowly away, movements uncannily reminiscent of a freshwater Sigmo crawfish. A large beast appeared out of the murky depths, watched Frizzle’s odd movements for a half a second, then promptly swallowed him. The last thing I heard was Frizzle’s joyous exclamation “D’oh!”
I watched each of my classmates get devoured by the brown trout of Montana, one by one, Razor scooter by Razor scooter. Despite these formidable weapons by our sides, there was one major oversight. The brown trout of Montana had no ankles to assault in the first place.
We went to Montana to explore the trout’s digestive system, and explore the trout’s digestive system we did. Today, whenever I ask a member of the Shield to recount their experiences for an article, they pretend like they don’t remember this traumatic experience. Like they don’t remember the gaping fishy mouth walls closing in on all sides. Like they don’t remember… emerging. I shudder to recount the feeling.
On a brighter note, Anjali stopped decimating the trout population. And John Lennon returned, which was a huge plus. More trout and more John Lennon? Score! Maybe we should have stayed back at Westmont and listened to some of the Beatles instead. Next time, we’ll remember to take his yellow submarine.
P.S. If you don’t understand any of this, don’t worry. It’s all a joke from Owen Andersen’s unhinged presentation that I’ve linked here.