A Slow Recovery

As you may of may not have known, I have been terminally illen for the past two days. Thanks to my horrible health, I was forced to stay home from school, get lots of sleep, and watch LAUGHAPALOOZA on Comedy Central. My torment continued when my father commanded me to remain inside, and forbid me from doing any strenuous activities. My athletic stature grew weak and fragile, but I refused to die so young.

I’m all better now and just finished my first day of school. Although I’m not back to full health, I was able to enjoy my day and joke around with my friends. My immune system was even strong enough to fight off the cafeteria food!

The only thing that managed to annoy me was my 2nd period math class. I generally enjoy math, but it impossible to learn anything at 9:00 in the morning. The class usually fights to stay conscious while my teacher (who always seems to be wide awake) bounces around writing things like

f(gx) = 5(11) = g(fx)

I’m not saying that my entire class is asleep; that would be too easy. Instead, I have these punks in my class who think they can waste my sleeping time with “educational questions.” Today was no different. I was in the corner of the room with my head down; trying to get some rest, when this studdering, stammering, idiot attempts to ask a question. His name? Robby Damon

Now, I know that those of you who have lived in Arlington, gone to Ottoson Middle School, or even taken a good whiff of some pungent smell, know exactly who Robby Damon is. He is famous throughout Arlington for the kid who can’t talk properly. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he is ridiculously smart; you just wouldn’t be able to tell from his physical appearance. Every winter (and summer) day, Robby comes crawling into school wearing the same purple fleece jacket, elegantly decorated with colorful Boyscout Badges. His hair is generally matted to his head, looking as if he murdered his cat and glued it to his head with black duct tape. Being the fashionable type, he wears elastic-waste sweatpants everyday, and displays them beautifully when he sits Indian-style at his desk. As if he is a gift sent by the fashion Gods, he short, hunched over posture exposes his Ninja Turtles underpants, as well as his knee-high socks.

At a distance, Robby looks somewhat like Big Foots ugly son, but up close, he is a soft, caring person with a heart of gold. He also smells like piss. Walking behind the kid, I feel my eyes start to water, and my nostrils begin to sting. To be completely honest with you guys, Robby Damon smells like pure gasoline. In fact, Fear Factor is trying to get him as a challenge in which the contestants will be forced to hug Robby for a certain amount of time. Sadly, the producers are constantly denying the idea, saying it was “inhumane.”

Walking behind Robby is bad enough in the open halls, but being trapped in a closed math room with him is pure torture. Not only must I gag over the smell of vomit covered in burnt rubber (or as Robby calls it: cologne), but I have to put up with his constant talking. Every single time my teacher makes an educational point, Robby is the first one to try and clarify it. And it’s not like I demote asking questions or clarifying ideas, it’s just that Robby studders, stammers, and slurs so much that his mathematical equation sounds more like a bible verse:

Teacher– And you can see that f(gx) is equal to g(x) because they both equal y.

Robby– S-s-s-so you’re shaying that jhurltal ish ekwol da geeftzilk c-c-c-cuz dey bof ekwull zimeanwhy?

Teacher– Umm, yeah, sure.

Other than my Robby Damon incident, my day was fine. I got some quality sleep in my Robby Damonless Spanish class, and was rested enough to play volleyball in gym class. The only thing that crippled me was when I was walking to Science. I had to walk behind Robby.

NOTE: Although I’m certain Robby doesn’t have feelings, I apologize to his mother, who is probably the only person who cares for him.

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2 Comments

Filed under School

2 responses to “A Slow Recovery

  1. alana

    aw that’s mean =[

  2. Mingo

    I think I went to school with Robby’s Dad! “Otis” was his name, and he was the perfect complement to Robby’s urine smell: He smelled like poo.
    Will someone please flush and spray?

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