Sitting as I do in band every morning, I have discovered one of the things in the universe that is a given.  There are very few exceptions and it applies all over this terestrial ball, no doubt.  Percussionists are idiotic dorks.
 Since the band director most probably has been in a band in high school, or has been an idiotic dork, he will place the percusionists into a remote corner of the bandhall.  In some instances, a cabinet or two may be placed in the line of sight between the band and the drummers.  The drummers live in deluded lives that lead them to believe that these cabinets have the magical properties that prevent all sound from passing them and reaching the band director.  It is constantly necessary for the one or two mature people trapped behind the cabinet to tell them to shut up.  Now this may sound rude, but their brains do not even register the words be quiet, and please is a terribly foreign word as well.  When percussionists hear "shut up" it is not whithin their capacity to just shut up.  They are psychologically bound by nature to respond rudely with "Why don't you shut up?" or "Make me." A normal person's response is to belt the offending percussionist, but patience must be employed or an infraction is imminent, though sometimes it seems worth it.
     Though they are drummers, they could not, if death was consequence, keep a steady beat. A favorite pastime of these percussionists is to put those nifty signs on people's backs that say stuff like, "My momma eats seaweed" and "Hi, I'm an exotic dancer.  If you like me, blow in my ear." because, people walking down the hall will definitely believe that the person sporting the all- too-cool sign put it on their own back, just because it uses the first person point of view.
     Now, the extreme intelligence of these boys is displayed when they try to place signs on those people who have been watching them make the signs, or those people who also are making signs, because no matter how innocent that friendly pat on the back is it becomes suspicious once it progresses into a full blown back rub as the sign maker tries to get that crusty masking tape to stick to the shirt.  Now, after the massage has taken place, the person who has been adorned with the sign can rip the sign off and try to be witty, but all that ever comes out is "Oh, you're funny!".  I keep hoping one of them will have a spark of genius one day and come up with something really caustic to say, but no such luck yet.
     Another wonderfully redeeming quality about these boys is their ability to throw.  No stray piece of debris is safe.  Anything that happens to be on the ground and unclaimed will eventually be hurled at someone.  These projectiles are usually harmless scraps of paper or candy wrappers, but every once in awhile a nut or bolt fallen from a decaying drum is aimed at someone's face.  If one of these drum people are hit in the face, there is a child-like cry of pain followed by infantile wailing, which requires a shut up, which entices a "Why don't you shut up?!".