“Mr. Drip said it was the most exciting, mature work from a pupil he had ever seen. Don’t suck your thumb, boy.”

“I wasn’t, sir.”

“No, it was just a bit of general advice for the future.”

This sketch is a straight up MURDERER’S ROW of quotables, fam. “Terry. Terry. Terry. Terrence. Terry. I can’t pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I’m an English teacher, not a homosexual.” It’s a perfect reminder that A: Most poetry is very bad, B: Saying “that’s what the piece explores” is the worst thing a person can do, C: Angry teenagers are hilarious, and D: Terry is an inherently funny name. “Who has been giving you heroin, boy? This is a matter for the police.”

Hugh’s ability to perfectly embody the slouch of a terrible, angry teenager (“you diseased boy”) makes me want to flail around until I DIE IN A SWAMP. This face (the hair! the slightly askew tie! the bugged-out eyes and the curled lip!):

And this line:

“I came to school to learn, but all I got was junk, instead of answers” are so beautifully matched they make me want to tear out my own eyes and replace them with black pearls.