Elliot
The moment I entered the livingroom, I became aware of a most unexpected and unpleasant dilemma. No sooner had I stepped through the doorway than a seething mass of yowling fur exploded around my legs, seeming to enter through the open window. My first impression was that a wig factory had exploded nearby, but then the mass separated, and I then realized that it had been comprised of two members of the feline family. I also noted, with considerable interest and dismay, that the reason for the irateness came from a scrap of fish envied by both parties. The reason for my dismay came from the fact that the fish was caught in my shoe! Due to my move to escape, the cats became separated by my legs, while I found myself wedged against the wall. As I stood there, surrounded by clawing cats, and pushing them away with one foot, I imagine I felt rather like that chap Moses must have felt, walking through the Red Sea with walls of water on either side and calamity running on from behind in the form of chariots and horses. I began to wish, in a sort of distracted way, that I done what the poet did, and taken the road less traveled by and gone anywhere but into the midst of these catastrophic events. But just as despair overtook me, I spied my butler Carruthers, a most capable man, hastening toward me. I hailed him. “Carruthers,” I cried, “get me away from these felonous felines!” “Very good, sir,” said he, and with great bravery, scooped up a cat under each arm and deposited them out the front door. I don't need to say how relieved and grateful I was, and I endevoured to thank him. “Thank you awfully for your well-timed arrival, Carruthers,” I said. “I had just had about as much as I could take from outrageous fortune's slings and arrows, coming in the form of those two villainous cats, when you biffed in and saved the day!” “You are welcome, sir, but I only did what was necessary,” was his modest reply. “Well, thanks anyway,” I returned, and chucked the fish out the window.
Exciting Food
By Nathaniel
It being my job on Friday evenings, I was setting the table for the large group of people who would be dining at the house that night. While lugging the loads of dishes from the kitchen, their weight making me envy Samson his gate, I caught a glimpse of a white crock pot out of the corner of my eye. I stooped to peer in, and the feet nearly left the ground in my elation: The pot was filled with juicy mounds of mashed potatoes. My well-founded excitement was due to the fact that the delicious comestible was nearly as rare as discovering a coin in a fish's mouth since it appeared on the table only around Thanksgiving. The sight set the mouth watering and the mind anticipating the sound of the dinner gong. I reentered the kitchen and found my mother laboring over a salad. “So, we're having mashed potatoes?” I asked. “Yes. And gravy.” This new revelation bolstered my spirits considerably higher than they already were (for nothing is better than mashed potatoes than mashed p. and gravy). In half an hour, the guests had arrived en masse, and, after easily resolving the simple question of “to eat, or not to eat,” we set upon the mashed p. and gravy as the storm did upon the disciples' boat.
Thomas
"Alfred, just look at the state of this room!"
"quite tragic sir"
"I mean there, my favorite pair of jean, is lying under my bead, tangled and inside out like a misinterpreted Shakespeare Comedy! I feel like this room is the scene in The Tempest before tood-il-oo and whats-a-pop land on "island excitement"."
"Yes sir, the resemblance is apt as you have drawn it up sir."
"Now, Alfred, the inescapable gnawing question is what to do with this seething floor of clothes and what-not."
"Yes sir, the question is a daunting one. If I may be at liberty to suggest a solution sir, do you think someone should possibly clean the room?"
"Yes, that seemed to be lighting the bulb…I suppose there is nothing for it. But not now, not today, tomorrow I will clean my room. After all…tomorrow is another day."
Of Ghastly Difficulties and Gorillas
by
Peter H.
During the eerie darkness of the morn, of which the human race was not created to partake in, I awoke. "What is the point of motivating myself enough to get up?" I questioned my pillow "pain and sorrow are the only two waiting for me." For what the day held, would make Job's worst seem like child's play. With no consent of my own, my dear parents had signed me up for the local highschool's baseball team. For some odd reason, the idea of running after a ball like a drooling lab, did not appeal to oneself. Desperately I had tried to dissuade them, but their stubbornness rivaled that of the Israelites in the desert. Unluckily, today was the first practice; more specifically, my first day of hell. I arrived onto Flanders Field to be greeted by a group of gorillas. My new teammates seemed to be incapable of discerning the difference between their cleats and there batting gloves, and there Coach was no better. He seemed to believehe was Julius Caesar, and we his legions. Regardless of these ghastly difficulties I pressed on with stiff upper lip. It would take more the mere men to bend the knees of P. Hennigan into submission.
Please recall that this piece of beautiful literature is nothing more than a twisted view of the happenings of March 15 2010.
Hunger Among the Chickens
By
Collin
Its was a fine A.M. that morning and I was having a dashed good idea to float out the door and take a jolly stroll, when I was acquitted, from the task, by a sound like that of a howling baboon. “Barney! is that you?”
“Oh, its you mother. I was beginning to think that a trio of primates had taken over the house and were producing a sound that could best the best of opera houses.
“Barney don't be a fool. I just saw you goose stepping out the door when I remembered that Mr. Bumble had let the chickens out to cluck about in the fresh air.”
“The chickens?”
“Yes the chickens.”
“You mean the kind of bird with the brain like a peanut”
“Yes Barney. I want you to put them up. And if they are not put up by noon time, you shall not get any dinner.”
“But”
“No 'buts' Barney. I will not tolerate this confused vocabulary of 'buts'.”
With that, I disparagingly walked out of the house and stumbled straight into some chicken mess. With spirits never higher, I took on the task of the fowler to go and capture this squawking poultry. Now a chicken is no more than a fat feathered egg laying biped. The bird's bean could only commit to the three occupations of eating, pooping, and clucking. I was making some great progress. Me and the flock were moving as one towards the chicken pen when suddenly the mother of all mothers made a flapping turn in the opposite direction with all of the other pea brains in hot pursuit. I was getting a dashed idea to forget the whole bloody business, but my stomach told me other wise. Finally, I made up my mind to get it over and meander back towards the chickens, which had evaded the hand of the fowler and were clucking about it. Eventually, with a squawk here and a cluck there I finally cooped the chickens back into the coop and went to go fill my long neglected stomach.
Robbing the Robber Jeffrey L.
If there was anything I wanted I desired in life, (which was not very common as I am usually a very contented person) it was a certain red-feathered quill pen. Now, to those that have not read that superfluous history of the Lancaster’s family quarrels, this is not such a dilemma. However, this was indeed a very perilous situation. For that specified writing article was in the hands of my sister, who had acquired it by nefarious means from yours truly. “Nelson,” I asked my butler, “I am simply dying to have that pen back. Has that inventive brain of yours thought of any solutions to that problem?” “I’m working on it sir.” He replied. “What!” I ejaculated in astonishment, “Surely you could have thought of something!” “Actually, I have thought of a plan to secure the pen but I have not thought of a plan to retain it. You see, sir, if your sister noticed that the pen were gone, she would immediately steal it back again and then we would be in the same position we started with.” “Oh hang it all, we are in a fix I, tell you, just like Sodom and Gomorrah, their problem was not how to steal the money, but how to keep it. Well Nelson, as the Romans said, Festina, oh how do they say it again?” “Festina Lente sir.” “Very well then Nelson, Festina Lente.” And so, after a short while, as is usually the case, Nelson exclaimed, “I’ve got it! We must distract her and then, while she is preoccupied, snatch it from under her very nose.” “Brilliant!” I agreed, “It is a plan worthy of Cicero. Within the hour, the pen shall be mine!” So, exactly thirty-two minutes later, Nelson’s voice cried out “Madam, you have a phone call.” “Coming” the twisted thief called” and ran out of the room. Overanxious in my excitement, I tripped over a rouge piece of laundry and crashed onto the floor!” STOMP STOMP STOMP. My heart filled with dread. Surely there was no hope of attaining the pen now. I could only watch as her eyes widened, guessing my purpose, and screamed, “You! You will never get that pen like it or not!” My eyes filled with tears of sadness. I had lost. I will never get the pen. Suddenly Nelson pulls me aside, “well at least alls well that ends well.” “Nelson!” I blubber, “How could you say that?” Then before my very eyes he produced the red-feathered pen of my dreams. “How?” I asked. “While your lovely sister was ranting and raving, I swiped it for a fake one.” “Well, I said”, my vigor renewed, “truly all is well that ends well.”
The Unpinned Player
Carissa
Here I am sleeping peacefully, dreaming about who knows what, when my mother comes in waking me up with a start, “get up, you only have fifteen minutes until we have to go!”
“ What, what, what, what!” I said, with greater degrees of urgency, bonking my head in the process. Finally understanding the urgency of the situation, I jumped up, scrambled an outfit that didn't exactly match, and donned it in less than a minute. Brushing my long red hair as fast as possible, and loosing about one hundred hairs in the process, I left out all style. As I entered the kitchen, a sudden pain and a sudden thought arose at once; the pain was my stomach beginning to lurch, the thought was, “today is the Awana Games, I'm so nervous; I hope my team does well”. That realization must have had a negative affect on my appetite; my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't eat. I stood in mortal dread of the unravellings of the day, even though I wouldn't even be participating in the games. Mother called, “let's go!” and she and myself climbed into the Honda (one of many different vehicles in my parents possession) which has only two doors that function, so in order to reach the back seat you most climb through the front. My mother wasn't actually going to drive me to the games; I was dropped off at my friend Heather's house. Switching vehicles, Heather's family and myself drove about five blocks, when Heather's father realized that the car was slowing down. We turned around, drove back to the house, and switched vehicles yet again, this time taking two cars. Heather's mother drove as fast as the law would allow her to. We were late. In the stands waiting for the games to start, I heard one of the heads of the event, likening the Awana Games to the Christian walk, read from the Bible 1 Corinthians 9:24-27. “ Do you not know that those who run in a race all run, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may obtain it. . .” the head stated, “only one team will win first place but I want all of you to run as fast as you possibly can”. The games started, twelve teams would compete against each other in fifteen events. They competed in Basket-ball relay, Seven lap run, Four way tug of war, and the Three legged race, among others. The Three legged race was the most interesting because one of the teams fell down in front of my team who jumped over them, which displayed extreme talent. Looking at my face, one could see I was nervous, although happy at the same time. Normally I would cheer verbally, but because of a sore throat, I clapped as if in a competition to clap the loudest. The competition came to a close. Tri-City (my club) won third place. As I went to congradulate them, Dustin, the coach, was saying “thank you” to each player, presenting them with a pin. He came to me, started to hand me a pin but stopped when he recognized I wasn't one of the players, and instead bubbled, “thank you for cheering us on!”
Christian
As I stepped up the tee the fear of a bogey ran through my mind as my friends taunted from behind my back. My dear brother stood beside me in my time of need saying such encouraging words as, “I bet he will throw his disc into the second post on the right” which happens to be a mere ten yards down the fairway. I took my stance, wound up and, like David and his stone, hurled my Frisbee with all the power in my body, directly into Goliath, the post second on the right. The leaden silence that followed gave me time to reflect on how I could have put more wrist into the throw or done a bigger wind up, or possibly dashed the disc into my dear brother. As I walked sulking over to my disc, formulations of how I could obtain par ran streaking through my head. I picked up the disc and the weight of it in my hand returned some of my confidence. Wetting my finger, I stuck it in the air testing the wind; a strong gust was coming with power like a wild shrew from the west which dampened my spirits yet again. Sports are a very silly thing, they show not how good you could be but how bad you actually are. I was considering how to tame the shrew with my next pitch when my mind started to wander. I was thinking about all the quiet activities that I could be engrossing myself in on this blustery Tuesday afternoon. Along with reading a good book, Buffing my boots and watering the garden were far above Frisbee golf on my new and improved list of priorities.
Defining Up
By: Patrick B.
I had just arrived at our Youth Group typically early, when I was confronted by my friend, Justin, with the question, “What’s up?” Now seeing as I have given much thought to this and have come to a finite conclusion, I decide to share it with him. Looking at him squarely I state boldly that, “It’s really more of a thought or idea than a definite fact.” A confused look crosses his face and he asks, now completely thrown, “What is?” Now my confusion grows because he is, in fact, the one who asked me in the first place. I respond, “Up is. You wanted to know what it was.” Understanding appears in his eyes and he makes a soft “oh” with his mouth. Then thinking it through further he looks at me anew and asks, “How do you come by that?” “Well, you see,” I respond knowingly, “we first must start with what up is. Now, would you agree with me that by definition up is, in fact, the opposite of down?” He nods his agreement and I continue, “That being the case, we must define down. Now down can be defined many ways, but for the sake of argument let us say that it is the direction gravity pulls you.” He nods once more in agreement. “Well, be that as it is, you must understand how I came by my response.” He shakes his head at me and states simply, “No, you’ve lost me.” I sigh dramatically for affect and start to list things out. “OK, fact one, up is the opposite of down. Fact two, down is the way gravity pulls you, you have this much right?” He nods his assent. “Well, as you may or may not know there is no actual proof that gravity exists.” Justin, startled, looks at me once more, “Come again?” “Well, it’s quite simple,” I respond, “Science, as of yet, does not know what makes gravity, gravity. Yes, we know that SOMETHING pulls us down, but we neither know WHAT it is nor whether it will stop at any time.” “So,” he response crossly, “how does this fit in with what up is?” I rub my forehead in consternation and attempt to try once more. “Let’s try again. Up, is the opposite of down, right?” “Right.” “Down is the direction gravity pulls you, right?” “Right.” “Gravity, as stated before, is an improvable concept. Since that is the case, the rest all falls into place. Since down is the direction gravity pulls and you cannot prove there is gravity, down cannot be proven. Since up is the opposite of down and one cannot prove there is a down, then you cannot prove there is an up either.” I finish triumphantly. He stares at me a moment with a strange look upon his face, before finally shrugging and shimmering off to join some other conversation.
Noble S.
This fateful weekend we did a play. It was one of Shakespeare's masterpieces, a Comedy of Errors and what errors too! I was the unfortunate Dromio of Syracuse, who was constantly getting beaten around by everyone else. I was the main source of humor during the play and I thought I fit the role perfectly. The play was going terrifically, everyone loved it and thought it was pretty funny. But, then came the end scene which was a different story. I was standing behind Luciana and pointing and making faces at my Master Antipholus, like I should be, then wham! I was hit square in the face and I fell backwards on the floor. I was suppose to be hit, it was actually part of the script, but not that hard. Like Sampson striking the Philistines down with his mighty jawbone of a donkey I was struck by the large hand of Luciana. Now of course the crowd thought it was hilarious, how can someone in poofy tights being hit with the force of a charging mule not be funny? I got up to my feet and felt my nose. However when I went to feel my face it was wet and stickyish. I thought that must be the makeup getting mixed up with my watery eyes, but it wasn't. It was blood. I had it all over my face. The force of her blow and the location at which it struck my nose was just enough to give me a good nose-bleed and not break my nose, thank goodness. I thought that I could just stay in character and pretend to hold my nose in my cape. It didn't work. I went off stage and tried to stifle the bleeding before my lines came on, but I couldn't. I woefully came onto the stage and adressed the audience that I had technical issues. The audience thought our play was hilarious and that the fake blood was very “realistic”.
FINIS
Austin
DEVOID OF DINNER
One may look back on certain events and chuckle when, during those events, the thought of them being humorous may very well have seemed impossible. This is the sort of phenomenon that occurred on the third Monday of March. Our dear pastor and his wife had gone to Africa for the week leaving their son and daughter in need of a home for the day. The morning was first-class; cool air and friendly conversation. When the sun had just passed its zenith in the sky, we decided that it was well past time that we make arrangements for lunch. Since we had spent a good deal of time cooking our breakfast, we decided that it was a capitol idea to go out to eat. We therefore set off on our mission for manna. After a soothing drive, we arrived at a place so wonderful that your mouth would start watering a good five minutes in advance to prepare the palate. Yes, we had arrived at Chili's. Not only had I been looking forward to indulging in a steaming skillet of fajitas, but also to a thick slice of paradise pie (the best dessert in the world) to finish everything off. I walked through the door only to realize my dire situation. There was a meeting in which my presence was required, and it started in thirty minutes. Crushed, I said my farewells and began the long walk across the parking lot to my car. As Shakespeare states "I alone beweep my outcast state," no truer words could be spoken of the situation. I proceeded to drive in a rather pensive mood. However, it is the duty of one in my situation to get behind every slow driver on the road. When I finally arrived at my destination, I proceeded to join the meeting. The meeting was mutually beneficial (apart from my growling stomach) for everyone in the room. As I drove home, the words of the Wordsworth came to mind, "I wandered lonely as a cloud." Expecting a welcoming to rival the prodigal son, I walked into the house, only to find that I was welcome to the sandwich-making materials in the fridge.
Marian T.
In the events following a supper with friends, a good non-asian chum and I were having a friendly conversation… while surrounded by other friends of the male gender. In the middle of a boomingly loud table, much as can be compared to what the red sea must have sounded like when parting, we had to constantly raise the level of our voices to match the increasing clamor around us. We were having a jolly good time. When suddenly, our conversation took an unexpected turn. With no introduction whatsoever, a very brief sentence escaped her mouth. “You don’t eat like an Asian.” Now, it just so happened that the very moment this was stated, silence had fallen around the table. All the chaotic conversation died without warning., leaving open space hanging about, which was filled with her one solitary sentence. Which in consequence left all around the table in stitches of laughter. ?” Many of you non-Asians may be slightly befuddled upon her remark… as I was. In an attempt for an explanation, “Well, how should an Asian eat?” To which was answered with the movement of her hand gripping the plate slightly with one hand and grasping her fork in the other, while simultaneously lifting the plate closer to her face and fork into her mouth, much to the amusement of the rest of the table.
My Humorous Moment of the Week
By Julia K.
Reading Jeeves in the Morning this week proved to be the most humorous event this week for me…
I sighed. My current state was ineffable and sui generis. My protean and peripatetic thoughts carried me away into worlds of arcane pleasures. The lovely words of Wodehouse served as my cynosure and I was hopeful that the smallest sound or sight would bowdlerize and awaken me from the slightest, if any, louche machinations that my mind might conceive that were irrelevant to the novel which I was reading. Reclining on my bed, I read the source of my journey– Jeeves in the Morning. Unknown to me, Jeeves in the Morning would soon prove to be my favorite humorous tome. I absorbed every word of that novel (a frigate) which can “take us worlds away.” As Emily Dickinson penned: “There is no Frigate like a Book / to take us Lands away…” Coming upon a hilarious section, it mustered all of my strength not to burst into laughter. I turned the page and began to read on. Ex nihilo, my occupied mind was startled by my mother’s voice.
“Julia? Do you yet have a hole in the stomach? Or would it be better if I would have asked if your stomach is ready for that which food alone does?”
“Coo! Coo!” I groaned inwardly. “Mom, my stomach feels as barren as a desert. No amount of food will ever satisfy it…only tomes that are alimentary – frigates!”
“Julia! You and your “frigates”! All I wanted was a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer!”
“Coo! Coo! Yes, I am hungry,” I replied, trying to continue reading the chapter of Wodehouse’s novel.
“Okay, what do you want to eat?”
Wyrd seemed to have taken its toll on a reluctant victim, who rarely ranted at anyone. Near fulminating, I cried out,
“Can I finish the lentil soup?”
“Yes, you may certainly finish the soup.”
Sighing, I muttered to myself: “Now I can once again read in peace.”
Sure enough, my mother had one final question for me, which proved to be my final straw.
“Do you want anything to go with it?”
Fulminating, I ranted, “Lascia mi in pace, mamma!”
My poor mother sighed and proceeded to warm up the soup. Soon the familiar sound of microwave coming to the end of a cycle told me it was time to apologize to the mother who cares so much about me.
I tiptoed downstairs. Entering the kitchen, I proceeded to move toward my mother. Not foreseeing myself to apologize or come downstairs without being called, my mother was startled to feel someone’s arms reaching around her. She lifted her eyes.
“I’m truly sorry, Mom,” I said, hanging my head in shame.
“I’ll forgive you,” she said, “but only this once!” she fondly clucked.
“Mom, you are too funny!”
“Not funny Julia, realistic. Now let’s see you get that soup into you so that next time, you can say something more impressive and kind in Italian!”
“Right ho, Mom!” I exclaimed, digging into the steaming bowl of soup.
Nathan B.
Once upon a time, in the not-so-dreary little town of Rock Hill, occurred the tragic event, the annual observation of the Daytona 500. Each year, the eldest offspring of my parents descends into the den and shimmers over the the television to activate the power. After this action is accomplished, he sinks into the depths of the couch and descends to an hours-long state of go-go-go-ing and no-no-no-ing that results in the glazing over of his brain until he is in a constant state of hebetude for the remainder of the event. At the onset of the happening, in the event of his lateness, he races to the den as a deer after cool streams. Should he be forced to relinquish his position of prone-on-the-couch-ness, he discovers that parting is such sweet sorrow, or bitter sorrow in this case anyway. In such a case, he shimmers back to the den as quickly as possible to resume his sad addiction. Indeed, no one else in the house can comprehend the reason why someone would adore something that involves driving in circles, except perhaps for the occasions when five cars are miraculously transformed into a fused heap of iron, steel, and rubber that quickly disintegrates across the highway. Even still, such amusements hardly justify the tedious, boring, unenjoyable, annoying, pointless, and redundant sport that is NASCAR racing. Indeed, to use one adjective merely dismisses a point, but to utilize six is truly condemning, so one can easily spot my stand on the subject. Even more unfortunately, after enduring the torture that is the Daytona-500-is-on-so-no-one-else-can-use-the-TV, we are forced to bear almost another full year before brief respite, which lasts for only three months.
Jenny T.
My stomach was light and sickly, like how one imagines it would feel after four bags of cotton candy and a frivolous escapade on one of those nasty upside-down carnival rides. My position backstage offered me a plain view of the pianist playing before me – a nerve-grating acquaintance, Soddy Puddlesworth. He thrives on this kind of thing; I die on it. All I could see of him was his slightly chubby back, twitching and melting dramatically to his boisterous song. “Stiff upper lip, Doosie Mae,” Soddy had said. “Break a leg.” At least he hadn’t called me Dooselmeyer, his masculine and rather crummy nickname for me; my name was Doosie Mae Chottlemeyer, not Dooselmeyer. Anyway, my gaze at this time, which had been anywhere but the awful stage where Soddy was playing, was caught by something on the floor, and I came close to falling over onto the dreadful stage! It was dried, speckled red paint, but I didn’t think of paint at first, I thought of blood. As soon as my heart had ceased it’s pounding, like an angry grandfather clock, I realized my own phantasmagoric state of mind, just like the Lady Macbeth, who was overwrought with guilt. Ha, blood indeed!
What was formerly cotton candy in my gut compounded into cannon balls when Soddy, the commanding cynosure on stage, now approached me. Slightly waddling, his face was beaming and a shade redder than usual, but the applause behind him was thundering. Fearfully, I remembered the words, “Under the wide and starry sky, dig me a grace and let me lie, glad did I live and gladly die,” and I longed most adamantly for this punishing tribulation to be over. “Go bring down the house, Dooselmeyer,” said Soddy, but I ignored his idiocy. Alas, all my time was gone, or it had all come, whichever you prefer. All machinations were gone from my mind; there was no escape. The stage awaited me. The uncountable number of eyes and ears, ready for my slightest uncoordinated movement or modulation of a note, were looking and listening only a few steps away. With great pains, I forced myself to move towards… Oh, “dig me a grave and let me lie,” gladly I lived, but certainly even more gladly would I, at this moment, die.
Cat-Kind
By Jonathan W.
After the event was over, and we had time to contemplate the recent proceedings, I confessed to George how close I had come to despair.
“Within an inch of disaster, George.”
“Truly, the situation became unquestionably sui generis, sir.”
“I truly thought it the impossible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cats are curious creatures.”
“Most undeniably, sir. They flummox the contemplations of one’s mind with their desultory machination, sir.”
Even before I relate to you the events that took place that fated morning, I must acknowledge that I have a terror of cats. A strong terror. Although you might consider this an appalling excuse, I dare say that I showed great aplomb during the situation.
On this extraordinary morning, I chanced to be in high spirits. Sauntering about the house, I suddenly recollected that I had an appointment with the Lord Mayor at ten o’clock sharp. Bolting around the corner, I had nearly experienced a head-on collision with George, who was, in fact, coming to remind me of the appointment.
“It is 9:35, sir.”
“Thank you, George. How lengthy is the travelling distance to the meeting?”
“Approximately five minutes, sir.”
“Fair enough. I shall get prepared.”
“Very good, sir.”
I proceeded to embark on the mad stampede to become suitably dressed. Crowned with success, I proceeded to sally forth with George to embark on our short adventure to the meeting. Opening the garage door, George resolved that I should drive, and I concurred. Boarding the quaint jalopy, we settled in for the ride.
As I backed out the driveway, I abruptly put on the brakes, rolled down the window, and fell to musing.
“Beautiful day, is it not?”
“Most definitely, sir. Noticeably well developed in all aspects.”
During my contemplation I failed to remember that our neighbors possessed a cat, who, in all respects, could be a magnificent role model for cat-kind, in character and in appearance. I had not failed to see these admirable qualities; however I was of the kind to resolutely forget them due to my terror of cats.
Perceiving our car, this remarkable cat preceded to bound en route for our us, during which I stared fixedly at the rapidly approaching beast with a sort of intrepid bewilderment, as if gawking at the animal could actually halt its approach. My hand subconsciously clawed for the switch to roll up the window, but it was too late. With a spring, the creature leapt through the air, sailing through the window and scoring a perfect landing on the middle seat of the car. The deed was done, and the animal proceeded to settle down into a state of hebetude.
My phobia of cats quickly overcame my urge to remain calm. It was the utmost I could do to restrain my desire to scream.
“Something must be done, George!”
“Most certainly, sir. The situation is perilous.”
“Well do something then! This is not a time to contemplate!”
“Very well, sir.”
So saying, he endeavored to grasp the frightful animal. Magnificent as large cats can appear, the size can quickly become a great obstacle in the way of removing them. When you grasp them from beneath, you quickly discover that they do not balance as you expect. George encountered this exact problem. Whilst trying to pick up the brute, it extended its hind legs in order to upset the delicate balance, a teeter-totter of sorts, which George had created.
“Most peculiar, sir.” “Quite fascinating indeed. In fact, I…”
While he continued his discourse on the balance of cats, I lost my patience and decided I must gather what courage was within me and do a valiant deed. I decided I must dislodge the dreadful beast. I proceeded to prod the cat on its hindquarters. Failing to make an impression on the animal, the cat simply looked at me with some sort of a bemused expression on its face.
Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was 9:54.
Realizing the awful predicament this appalling beast had put me in, I summoned every bit of courage within me and approached the animal with my muscles twitching, breathing heavily. Grasping the animal with my hand, I strived to lift it out of the comfortable spot it had picked on the seat. Seeing how miserably I was failing, I quickly realized that the brute had fastened its claws on the cloth seat, making my mission unmanageable.
In a flash, I suddenly recalled a how my Aunt had once told me that if you pet a cat, it will leave. I had never pet a cat before, actually. I determined that today would be the day I must do this deed. I proceeded to reach out and give a little pat on the head of the animal. The cat stood up. I then gave it a little scratch behind the ears, and it jumped into my lap. Resisting my urge to heave the cat out of the window, I managed to provide the cat a half-hearted itch under its chin. Almost with a grinning expression, the cat leapt out of the car and vanished as quickly as it had come.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and suddenly realized my entire frame was unsteady and weak. I felt as if I had been sitting under a pile of bricks. As I came to, I realized that George was still continuing his discourse on cats.
“…Indeed, if a study could be done on the balance of cats, it would greatly benefit the world of science. As Sir Walter Scott once said, ‘Cats are mysterious folk. There is more passing in their minds than we are aware of.’”
“George!”
“Yes sir?”
“Do you realize that you did not help me at all to remove that fearsome animal?”
“No sir, I’m sorry sir.”
“Never mind, alea jacta est.”
“It is 9:55, sir.”
Guffawing loudly about the unfairness of time, I roared out of the driveway toward the meeting. Dashing through the parking lot, we composed ourselves in front of the door, and sallied into the building as if we hadn’t a care in the world. We were on time.
After the meeting as we made our way home, I remarked to George, “Cats are most curious, are they not?”
“Most undeniably, sir…”
But we already went into that before, didn’t we?
Victoria T.
Two girls and a boy, all three under the age of eight, are outside on this fine sun-filled day, playing the sophisticated game of croquet. Sophisticated, that is, in intent, but as I watch, I wonder whether the youngsters have any notion of their constant bending of even the most elementary procedures regarding this pastime. To begin, they all select a mallet and a ball, and set up the wickets—most of which are at an approximately 20 degree angle to the ground. The actual game begins with one of the girls striking vehemently at the first ball, missing the intended wicket, and losing the ball in the bushes behind her. Then, the rest of the children join in, all three playing at once and progressing slowly through the crooked and bumpy course. Their method is peculiar: whenever one of them misses an intended wicket, he/she will lift the b. with their hand, place it directly in front of (and sometimes halfway through) the w., and hit it with the m. This procedure occurs over and over again. Winning the game seems to consist of going through all of the wickets quickest and hitting the stake at the end before the others. The lucky child who completes this jumps in ecstasy and the other two raise their mallets in protest. Now there occurs the second game of the day, some sort of military battle, in which all begin to swing the mallets wildly around their heads, each resulting circle with a diameter of about 6 feet. Often trees will fall down from flying stones like Goliath toppling from a small pebble. Wickets rebound and balls rain from the sky like abnormally large hailstones. The strange thing is, though, none of these youngsters ever seem to be wounded from this battle, suggesting use of an invisible shield of some sort. These children are certainly not the sophisticated-old-lady-croquet type. But somehow, it is almost more enjoyable watching them in their play than sitting, sipping punch and listening to out of date gossip.
Allison O.
“Sydney!” I called (Sydney was my butler).
He didn’t appear. I did a bit more Sydney - ing, and he sidled in, “Yes sir?” he said in a sneering voice.
“Fetch me my Wii remote”
“I believe it is broken sir,” he replied in that same sneering voice.
“Dash it Sydney! Why is it broken?”
“Because you threw it out of the window when you lost that game of tennis.”
“Well, didn’t you buy me a new one? I thought I instructed you to do so.”
“You did, sir, but I was busy.”
I yelled at him and sent him away. He biffed off to the store running as fast as the Israelites ran from the Egyptians. When he popped back with the new remote I was quickly immersed in a challenging game of boxing. I found it an adrenaline rush experience. As I was doing a bit of jab - and - punch - ing at the screen my viewers yelled encouragement and advice at me. The match ended and I sat down nursing my aching arm. Suddenly, I had a strange thought, “How is it that people can get hurt while not even playing a real sport? Why can’t people get outside and play a real game instead of sitting inside staring at a tv while they swing at a virtual ball? Granted we wouldn’t want to play real boxing, but other sports such as golf or racketball.” I laughed to myself as I thought of how I had strained my shoulder playing Wii just trying to hit a baseball. America is a funny country if it can’t even stop themselves from getting hurt playing sports, let alone virtually.
“Sydney!”
“Yes sir?”
“Toss the Wii out the window.”
“Yes sir.”
The Surprise
Katrina
The sun shone down on a girl, busily washing dishes. Playing gleefully outside, her younger brother sister enjoyed the bright round orbit in the sky, otherwise known as the sun. The face of the aforementioned celestial body had of late been hidden behind some cheerless clouds, and thus the two children were enjoying this sui generis event with an almost insouciant joy. Inside the house, meanwhile, her parents hovered around the computer, busy at some task, with that rather helpful but bothersome electronic acting as the cynosure. Then, quite to her amazement, the girl heard her email notifier go off. Startled, whe wondered why it was going off, as normally it was on her parent’s account. She thought no more of it, and put the finishing touches on the kitchen. Then the notifier went off again, and was once more dismissed.
“What are they doing?” the girl wondered with exiguous curiosity. For although Proverbs states that it is the glory of God to conceal a matter, but the glory of kings to search a matter out, she was not in a curious mood. Deciding to practice the piano, she was soon playing a song which she was diligently endeavoring to perfect. Mother called her over.
“Your Father and I set you up on Facebook,” she explained to her daughter.
“So that’s why my notifier kept going off!” she exclaimed.
“Now you can sit down, and get all of your friends”
So the girl sat down, and requested all of her friends who were on Facebook. Suddenly, given an account, the girl hardly knew what to do with it. She hadn’t even requested it once. Abruptly the door opened, and her siblings burst in, brimming with life. Seeing the rest of their family floating around the computer, they immediately descended, and showed a most lively interest. Her brother immediately asked for an account, and was just as promptly refused. We will perorate this paper by closing the scene on the happily engaged family.
Drew T.
It was a hot, spring day at the Teel house. Three boys, all in suits, were relaxing after a class. I somehow got into my head that one of my friends’ heads made a good target for a Nerf gun. And I brazenly picked up the gun and opened fire on my friend. He, having a great temper, thought that pounding me was an excellent idea as payback. So, with no further adieu, I ran out the door. I halted in the yard to lower my sunglasses, but only had a brief moment as my friend came out the door waving a katana. My friend, whose name is Jonathan, but is called Jo-Jo, is of considerable diameter in the region of the gut. And is, according to his size, very strong. My other friend James, dubbed Berkles, was acting as a bystander, is strong for his small size. Myself, Drew dubbed Teelskies, was the taller of the two for a change, and the swiftest as well. As Jo-Jo barreled out of the house, I hoped that the door slam did not hurt anything but I did not have time to think long and instead had to find a way of escape. So I dashed back into the house with Jo-Jo hot on my heels. I ran and took a left through the living room and then circled around the house. In this time period, my sister and her friend walked into another room. And I was headed in that direction. I clipped my sister’s friend as I dashed past. In the moment, I thought of how it was believed in Rome that if a runner touched a barren woman it would heal her. I do not know why I thought of this though. But I had no time as Jo-Jo came in, I went behind the girls and out the back door with Jo-Jo close behind. Berkles during this time was still sitting in the front yard. I took a hard left and, using my superior speed, led Jo-Jo around the block staying about 40 yards ahead of him. I kept on going and hid behind a bush near my house. Jo-Jo had turned back and was talking to Berkles. I popped up and he saw me and charged. I waited and as he came around the bush, I went pop like a weasel and ran towards the house and inside. I hid and Jo-Jo tried to go in the front door but it was locked so he went around the back. I then thought of how Saul chased David around the mountain while David was on the other side. I went out the front door and hid in the car. Finally, Mom put an end to it as she came out and flushed me out of the car. Luckily for my sake, our ride to our next class came so we had to quit the chase and leave.
My First Day on the Job
By Stephen G.
It was a warm spring afternoon in sunny California. The sun blazed brightly, the birds flitted from tree to tree, and everything was green and lush. As the poet Emily Dickinson penned, "Nature is what we see, The Hill, the Afternoon - Squirrel, Eclipse, the Bumble-bee, Nay - Nature is Heaven. In this dreamy state of mind, I was getting ready to mow my grandparents' lawn, which was my new job. I had looked forward to using my grandfather's riding lawnmower, because it is more fun and takes less time than the hand mower. Ready to go, I was wearing shorts and t-shirt while blasting music from my Ipod. I started the mower, turned on the blade, and started to mow in monotonous circles around the yard. After a couple of laps, I grew more comfortable controlling the mower. As I was selecting a new song on my Ipod, I suddenly heard a loud crunch and felt a lurch forward. I looked up and realized that I had ran into the cottonwood tree. I backed up and finished without music. After completing the job, I accepted a tall glass of cold lemonade from the butler before turning around to admire my handiwork. It was then that I realized that I had forgotten to lower the blade and had not actually cut the grass. Exasperated, I muttered, "To mow again, or not to mow again. That is the question." William Shakespeare summed up my experience best when he wrote, "And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything."
A DEATH AS YOU LIKE IT
By Paris R.
The whole mess started one particularly sluggish Sunday morning just before Sunday School, at about 8’o clock. Now you must understand that it was the time of day when groggy high schoolers, with espresso in hand stumble half-heartedly into a very blindingly colorful class room, attempting to secure a cushy couch seat. It is not the time or place to put forth devilishly hard academic questions or to ponder profound statements, nay not even to chat about the latest gossip; for at eight on Sunday the dense mind of a youngster is at its worst. However, dear Shorty Blinkings seemed in the dark as to his comrades state of mind and went along and dropped quite the bomb on all of us.
“I say,” He said, leaning forward with unusually bright black eyes. “Did you hear that Justin Beiber went and died?” He was of course referring to the Justin Beiber, a recent teen pop star who, with his dashing good looks had captured the hearts of millions of young girls. Well upon hearing this bit of unfounded news, Katie--a blond girl sitting next to Shorty-- let out a truly awful scream followed by “JUSTIN IS DEAD!” She then fainted amidst the squealing cries of several other girls who thought that Pavilion was dead, a red headed classmate who’s first name was coincidentally, Justin. So after running about in a tearful frenzy the mislead group of girls collapsed taking out several others who happened to be in the way. But their silly little heads hardly touched the ground before Justin Pavilion, like Lazarus raised from the dead, trudged into the class room.
“Oi, your not dead.” said an overly observant boy.
“No he‘s not dead!” Interjected the befuddled Shorty waving his arms wildly in the air. “I said Justin Beiber was--”
“Beeper is dead!?” Interrupted a rather loud and boisterous person named Tom.
“He’s in my class!”
“Mine too! I didn’t‘ know he died,” added another over excited teen, as he spilt his coffee all over the place.
“No, no you’ve got it all wrong!” I yelled trying to explain the conundrum, but it was no use. By that time the whole room was a commotion of red and pale faced people tripping over the fallen and arguing confusedly over who had actually died. Shorty in the mean time, melted into the couch in despair, no doubt wishing his butler, Leshing was present to clear up the whole mess. But as it was the matter never resolved and as Shakespeare so wonderfully says “It all turned out as you like it.”-- or something of that sort.
THE END!
Allison B.
One day my dear mother had the wonderful idea of eating lunch out of doors. The weather in Sacramento, California was exceptionally bright and warm for a March afternoon, and we were all feeling quite chirpy. With hopes high and spirits bright, we brought our scrumptious meal into the backyard and settled down. Bird songs filled our ears and the smell of freesias floated in the air. Ahh…the flora and fauna…the wildlife...the beauty of it all…That is when we noticed two organisms of the class Mammalia getting a little close and personal with us. More precisely, our dog was slowly inching towards the table, and our pet rabbit, looking like such an “innocent flower”, suddenly darted into our bag of Fig Newtons and began munching away. While it is always exciting to observe animals in their natural environment, one does not necessarily enjoy seeing them steal a picnic from the table! As Job 12:7-10 implies, animals are supposed to testify about their Creator, but the only message we could perceive from our pets was, “feed us, feed us!” Our pleasant lunch turned into a tumultuous experience as we tried to ward off these invaders by shoving and shooing them away. In the end, we contributed many a bite of our meal to these “starving” animals and they were finally satisfied.
Sources:
1. Wodehouse, P.G. Jeeves in the Morning (contributed in writing style)
2. The Bible, Job 12:7-10 NIV
3. Lady Macbeth, Act I, Scene V
Colton B.
The Craigslist Rednecks
It was late afternoon when I found myself posting an add on craigslist that simply read:” Afermath Kraken AK-47 - $85”. All previous Attempts to sell my replica airsoft rifle had gone awry, but this latest upset of my plans to sell was a rather welcome rejection. After running into a fulmination of incompetence by the buyer I received an apology that read “oh geezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzour number is6318556 I just seen where I had it down as 632 I cant call long distance.Had to have it taken off.KIdsERrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” which by no means, gave me any reassurance of the buyers competence
After I receiving the buyers response I went through a week day ritual: Eat breakfast, do homework, do homework, do homework, eat lunch, do homework, do home work, check email, check forums, check blogs, eat dinner, Read, and go to bed. The next morning I was rudely interrupted by a call from a Russian who had quite assumingly lied to me and was now asking me to sell him an iPod for a price equal to highway robbery, to which I quite decidedly declined. After hearing the Russian’s plea, I decided to call “Jack Shaw”. After dialing, Mr Shaw’s butler quite rudely answered “Hello!” already regretting my decision to call I tentatively stated my business to which the raspy voice of the butler replied “well, yeah, yeah, our safe… well it got broken into so my master… well…”quite bewildered at the abrupt end to this story I heard the voice yell “master Jack!, master jack!, here’s that guy about the AK”, to which a voice, seeming as though it belonged to a man who had been smoking a cigarette, and laying on the couch for forty day’s and forty nights replied “Yeah so!?” by now I was quivering under a blanket of remorse, but I suppose “Everyone ought to bear patiently the results of his own conduct.” suddenly the crackly voice was now talking to me, saying “Hello, so…” as if I were expected me to do all the talking, I tentatively responded “Sir? Are you looking for a real gun?” to which the voice began “well… uh… um wha” I reasserted my question with more detail now, saying “sir are you wanting a real weapon? Because what I have used for Military simulation… not shooting bullets” the voice, abruptly broke from all indecision and suddenly replied with a “No! No…nu, I wanna shoot somebody, huhahuhuha.” I resisted to carry the conversation into an amusing conversation I simply said “oh, well sir I, I can’t help you there.” My mind swam, but the most decided thought was truly, “thank God I didn’t haft to meet those people”
Julia W.
A Prodigious Predicament
It was a rather rummy, humid day; everything was sort-of, dull. There wasn’t any I-have-a-fun-idea-ing going on and we hadn’t planned on anybody peeking in for a visit. Nothing stimulating was going on, just monotonous school and chores. For that reason precisely, you could just imagine the pure bewilderment all seven of our faces showed in harmony when there was a tap on the old door. Catherine crept outside and was unexpectedly met by the 4-Hers! Now, I can’t half expect you to appreciate the gravity of the situation just yet. You see, every third Tuesday of the month we lead a 4-H meeting at our place. The desultory news which made us realize the pure hebitude we possessed was...we had completely and utterly forgotten about it! The day which seemed so lackluster a few minutes ago was the exact equipoise of that now! I must say, we had a predicament on our hands. What did I do? Well, what anybody would have done…I ran inside, closed the door and let my younger siblings keep them company until I had fully grasped myself. It was peradventure not the best solution, but I felt it was the only thing to be done. After gaining my sanity back I went outside and told them, “Hello old chaps! The meeting will commence in the backyard in just a few.” Our house was a total disaster don’t you know, because we honestly didn’t expect anybody to appear that day. As for the meeting part, we took a quick glance at the topic to be discussed and went outside to try and sound like we knew what we were talking about for a whole hour. After all, Albert Einstein said, “anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new” I hadn’t ever tried ad-libbing an hour long meeting before, although I never intend to do it again! On the bright side, the predicament that appeared so dreadful to us that day, seems just too comical now, it’s wasn’t a very monotonous day after all!
Ravens at the Top of the Morning
Davis M.
3/17/10
I sat at the kitchen table starting the main course of starting my day, which was after showering and a devotional. As I ate my lean breakfast of oatmeal and water I thought about the ravens that have been aggressive birds in the neighborhood. They have been eating the humming bird’s eggs and causing roof damage by putting acorns beneath the shingles. Considering my calling, I had the old Red Rider ready down stairs and my air soft pistol ready upstairs. To a to hear a fathered devil boasts about it overpowering abilities from the top of the trees would be peradventure, but also an ignition to my métier of using light artillery. School starts at eight O’ clock and it was a solid 26 minutes to do a brief sense of animal justice which was dubious. While thinking that, I ate another spoonful of naturally fibrous porridge. Then a self-cover blowing screech was made from outside, within that very second; the sucker was a cynosure towards a .177 mm ball. With a sound of a clack, the projectile was launched and it stung the puffed up belly of pride, which belonged to the bird brained bully. The pride of dominion was pierced causing the raven to leave as a lighter bird, not because the weight of his self-esteem was dropped but because he lost a couple feathers from a flapping fit. As I walked back into the house, I knew that I had a new hobby and also that my day was starting off quite well.
Aaron J.
Friday morning came around, Kara decided to take a trip to seattle for the weekend and leave her two babies (my nephews) with my mom and I. Jackson who is a little spitfire and will do anything for a laugh is two and a half years old, and Kameron who is the younger brother is exactly opposite of Jackson and he is nine months old. As the day progressed Jackson got wilder and wilder, he was throwing toys, flicking food, and running in circles screaming his head off for no reason. Every single thing he did would end with him looking at you to see a reaction. So Richardson my eleven year old brother and I thought we shouldn’t let all this energy and talent go to waste. We dressed Jackson in an insane looking plastic knights amour. As we get done putting his helmet on Richardson whispered,” And now we wait.” While we three are sitting silently in my mom’s bedroom, my mom started to wonder what Jackson is getting into because of the sneaky silence that had filled the house. And it didn’t take to long for my little sister Loventina to come looking for him, so we set him up in our battle station and waited. As the door crept open and Loventina tiptoed in and she was met with blazing plastic arrows and a Young Knight in dead sprint toward her swinging his sword with a savage look on his face. And Jackson chased her and chased her through the house with intention to expunge her, while everyone else was on the floor laughing. But finally The Young Knight caught her and as if he were David slaying Goliath, he knocked her down invidiously started to tickle her. As the commotion came to an end the Young Knight found himself with his nose in the corner for ten minutes, while Richardson and I had hours of cleaning the house before us as punishment for this unwanted behavior.
Shelby B.
Pizza Disaster
Everyone loves pizza. That's why I decided to make one last night. It was a tomato, basil, drizzled with olive oil, pizza-the best! As I slide it into the oven, a little olive oil leaked off the pizza wheel, and I think nothing of it. Setting the timer, I walk away. A couple of minutes later, Camron walks into the kitchen “Shelby... there is smoke in the kitchen” “It's OK. I'll just turn the hood fan on” I said, and walked away. A few minutes pass, and dad walks in “SHELBY! The kitchen is FILLED with smoke! GET IN HERE!!”. I saunter in, to a kitchen that really is FILLED with smoke you can hardly breathe! I had been a little heavy-handed with the olive oil on the pizza, and now it was leaking onto the oven, which was causing the smoke. Here comes mom, running “What?! What?! Ahhh!”. Hurriedly, we all disperse to open doors and windows and turn on fans. Eventually, all the smoke cleared out of the house, after the smoke alarm had gone off three times.
Chick Catastrophe
By Brandon J.
The morning of Friday the 12th of May was a joyful one, most likely because the preceding day, 35 newly hatched chicks were delivered to the residence of the Jamieson’s on 9 Elm Drive. I was getting out of bed at my own leisurely pace, when my mother wallowed into my room wearing a very pathic demeanor. At fist I thought that my “leisurely pace” wasn’t fast enough and that I was going to get it, but instead, she told me the following story. My mother had gotten up that morning, and making sure that the cat wasn’t following her, made her way down to the basement to check the chicks. (If you didn’t quit know yet, cat and chicks do not get along.) Now when you are keeping chicks, you have to be very precise; very clean water is needed, along with food and an average temperature of 95 F; their very punctilious creatures rather. Opening the door leading to the chicks, my mother looked up, and stopped dead in her tracks; not dead in her tracks for that matter, the chicks where dead, or looked so at the time. Quickly my mother called on Smew; Smew is butler, but don’t ask him about his name, when asked he always answers, “Yes, Master Brandon, one can’t pick his name, or his parents for that matter.” At the call of his distressed mistress, Smew rushed down the stairs to where my mother was standing, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Following her gaze he walked up to the pen, and after examining the bodies he burst out laughing, “They’re asleep Mrs.” he exclaimed. My mother rushed over, Smew was correct, like most butlers are, the chicks were so exhausted the previous night that they had just fallen over, and since they were so small they barely moved when they breathed. They then, hearing the noise, one by one rose up like the risen Lazarus. At the story I was highly amused, but that morning my poor mom and had had a serious fright.
Nathan B.
“I say, Jeeves, when it comes to butlers, you really take the cake.”
“Why thank you, sir.”
“The way you spill over with info, you always come up with a... what's the word?”
“Solution, sir?”
“No, no, that's a bit weak... it's something about a Lucy-something.”
“Would it be 'elucidation', sir?
“Yes, yes, that's it! You've hit it on the needle. Anyway, as I was saying, for a man of your mettle... no, that's not it... medium... no...”
“Metier, sir?”
“Yes, there you go hitting-on-the-needle again. Thanks a bunch. To continue, for a man of your metier, you're hardly the average butler.
“Yes, sir.”
“That bit with Uncle Percy, where you told him her ladyship had come back – that was a brilliant machine... oh help.”
“Perhaps you're trying for 'machination', sir?
“Precisely. Anyway, that was really stunning. I mean it, that was the stuff. I honestly haven't the foggiest where you come up with these things.”
“It's the sardines.”
“Ah yes, you and your fish. Not a bit fan myself, but whatever floats... whatever sails... what's that saying again?”
“Whatever floats your boat, sir?”
“Yes, exactly. Whatever floats your boat. Did you come up with that one?”
“No sir.”
“Ah well, it's still bloody good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well you're perfectly welcome. And why shouldn't you be? After all, if it hadn't been for you, I might have gotten married to that dashed Florence – oh, even the name makes me shudder.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well this has been a nice chat, Jeeves. We really should do it again sometime.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well, you really do take the cake. Anyhow, I think I'll be going to that ball now. Now where's that Sindbad costume?”
Monday, May 24, 2010 at 12:32PM