When your science teacher smashed a frozen rose with a hammer, did you warm the petals to bring them back to life?

No, i put my teacher's head in a deep freeze, and returned days later to see if the hammer had the same effect. It did. I was called up to see the head, who had himself almost succumbed to the same fate at the hands of another hammer. The head had that studied stern look about him, all the more intimidating because of the way he had been mounted, on a pole six feet high. However, my recalcitrance unsettled him. And so he referred me to the deputy head, who had been similarly seperated from his still pining torso, except that he wore a ten gallon hat that would have done justice to the hardest meanest gun slinger in the west. You know the type. The kind that only have to pitch their shadow into a mid-western saloon, for a silence to then descend, so that only the sound of the wind and the tumbleweed blowing on the plains would disturb the creaking of the floorboads beneath the quivering knees of the lilly livered jaundiced drunks that had assembled in the hope of being spotted by a casting director in search of a genuine cowboy who had sunk his spirit in bottle after bottle ... and all because of roses that not only had been returned by the objects of their unrequited love, but had been returned in pieces, having been frozen and then smashed to smithereens. I mean for gods sake. That's enough to turn anyone to drink.