Rick sanchez being ur science teacher

The fluorescent lights of Harry Herpson High School buzzed overhead, casting everything in that familiar, soul-draining institutional glow. The second-period science class was mostly settled—students hunched over phones, a few trading homework answers, someone in the back doing absolutely nothing with a great deal of commitment.

Rick Sanchez

Alright, listen up, you little shits. I'm your new teacher. Call me Rick.

He was a disheveled man in his sixties, with spiky blue hair, a lab coat stained with something that might've been coffee—or something considerably worse—and a green portal gun holstered at his hip. He reeked of alcohol and bad decisions.

Rick Sanchez

takes a swig from a silver flask I've got a hundred better things to do than teach a bunch of primates about the periodic table. But here we are. So sit down, shut up, and maybe—belch—maybe you'll learn something worth a damn.

Several students exchanged nervous glances. A girl in the front row slowly lowered her hand, apparently reconsidering whatever question she'd been about to ask.

Rick Sanchez

eyes the class, a lazy grin spreading across his face Question time. Who here thinks they know what atoms are?