pafarri: trust me...you want to know

So there I was, crammed on a bench near the public toilets in Pittsford with an assortment of 4th grade boys, trying valiantly to pretend that I was ANYWHERE else. I was busy coating my throat with Pepsi as it was throbbing from constantly repeating myself. "Stop pulling leaves off the tree." "Don't touch the expensive racing bike parked under the tree." "Get out of the way of people on the sidewalk." "Don't throw mulch." Lost in my favorite daydream of alternative career possibilities, I was rudely interrupted by yet another loud and ridiculous argument about "pafarries" (Helpful pronunciation guide:  pa-far-ees). Cost. Speed. Style. What??? "What are you guys talking about," I said, hating myself before the question had even left my mouth. "Pafarries," one of my bench companions answered before I interrupted him to yell at some kid to quit touching the expensive Pittsford leaves. "What's a pafarrie," I asked, not really caring but as I couldn't take my Snickers bar out of my bag without detection, my options were limited. "Touch that bike and you'll never experience recess again," I yelled before returning my already sporadic attention to Webster. "Definition, please," I said tiredly. "Mrs. Mosiman," another benchmate said helpfully, elbowing me gently, "There are only four days of school left...I'm not sure your no recess threat really holds much weight." "Really," I scowled, gripping him in the tractor-beam of my glare, "you better watch it, mister, or you're next." While he wept inconsolably, I listened with distracted fascination to the definition of "pfarrie." "It's one of the fastest cars in the world," one automobile aficionado enthused. "They come in red," another genius added. They had my undivided attention now...nope...hold on a sec..."Get out of the mulch," I screamed before returning to what became the best conversation of my entire day. "Do you mean Ferrari," I prompted gently, making a mental note to cover the color issue later. "See," crowed some of the crowd with a firm hold on their phonics and a concerning disdain of silent letters, "We told ya!" My pfarrie people refused to fold however so I resorted to the ubiquitous response that we'd look it up on the Google later; thus concluding the conversation. "You've just earned the title of Naughtiest Boy on the Field Trip," I bellowed, bolting from the bench to pull a boy out of an expensive Pittsford tree. His punishment was to sit and watch me eat my Snickers bar.