"Is this pretty? Is this cool?"
Do you write? Do you write well? Are you a turtle shock collar? Shock caller, dialing into your favorite local weatherman's answering meatmachine.
"Spotted 45 hurricanes eastbound slightly overchill about to hit the grammar school, over."
His reaction was priceless.
"My reaction wuz here," the bathroom stall said. Then Cody left the smelly confines of Wooden Wart Jr. High and hopped onto the Tranny Bus for Kids.
"What is your name? Lemme guess, Jo? Is it Jo? You look like a cutie-pie Jo," it said.
Cody wasn't familiar with these types. These nefarious types. But he didn't care. The bus ride was free and his pockets were Mark Twain's initials. The glass wall-o-fame purchased by his uncle was expected to arrive any day now. Cody would be in charge of signing off on the package once the delivery man arrived. Or delivery woman. Or delivery it. These were the days of his life.
Cody was dropped off at approximately 6:01 AM. Man, school slowed its jets.
The door was wide open and Cody expected a predator to be resting his heels on his daddy-o's favorite chair. His heels, yes. Not expecting a Mrs. or an it. He would be in huge, gigantic trouble if daddy-o found out, mister.
Cody allocated enough breaths to prepare himself for the masked intruder, the half-eaten monster, the boogie-man, the boogie-eating man who wet his pants, was made fun of in school, and never recovered, thereby turning into a menace II society and breaking into perfectly sound homes in broad barnshitting daylight. Intro so saxxy:
"Who is there?"
"Nobody," it said.
"Okay. Okay. Alright. I heard that. Who is there?"
Cody's heart pounded a million drums. Drum roll pwease.
"Hello? Seriously, this isn't funny." Cody wasn't old enough to suffer a heart attack. He's just too young a black mother would have argued.
"Son, it's me. It's your pal."
Oh, thank God. Thank any God currently tuning in. It was just his uncle. Tranny Uncle Jay.
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