I enjoyed woodshop.
One particular day, the friend with the beard (before he had a beard), the friend with the hat, and I were in woodship building little stepping stools or something equally boring. The instructor stepped out of the room for a few minutes, leaving us alone with the power equipment. When he returned, he found us standing there, drills in hand.
There were holes in the tables, holes in the benches, holes in the walls, holes in the floor, holes in the ceiling, holes in the door, holes in the counters, holes in the cabinets, holes in the desks, holes in everything one could possibly drill a hole into. He became livid and threatened to have us expelled, until we reminded him that he had left several minors unattended with dangerous equipment so he could go outside and smoke a cigarette, although it was possibly a doobie, we couldn't really tell from the window and the principal wouldn't care much anyway. Also, if he decided he did want to tell the principal, I told him I may have accidently injured myself on the scroll saw during his absence, possibly resulting in long-term damage to my left thumb. After a long silence, during which we could see he was carefully evaluating what we had said, he told us to behave and carry on.
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