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Thank you, Mr. Webb

Once, I tried to egg my teacher's house. I was in high school -- a junior maybe? A senior? It was dusk. We drove by Mr. Webb's house slowly. The plan was this: I'd stand up in the passenger seat, poke my head out the sunroof and launch two eggs -- one right after the other. They'd explode on Mr. Webb's porch, maybe even the front door. Then, we'd drive off laughing, high-fiving and hell-yeahing as we imagined him trying to solve the mystery of the egging. The grand irony is this: when I look back on all the teachers I've had in my life, Mr. Webb's the one who stands out, and there I was trying to egg his house. I had him for two classes:...

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