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March 28, 2006
Third graders are really crappy cooks
The rhetOracle is a mock issue of Hamline's undergraduate newspaper, the Oracle. We are trying to be as derisive as possible. Please enjoy the farcical nature of this issue or at least, ignore us.
Third graders can’t cook worth shit. Namely third grade boys named Darrin. Case in point, a breakfast redezvous with my assigned buddy from Hancock Elementary.
I didn’t ask for a “little buddy,” but in accordance with court order, I am giving back to the community with a smile from ear to ear. Darrin and I were paired together after the results of St. Paul Schools’ mentor placement program, on which we got nearly matching scores. We both highlighted the fact that we eat glue. He’s a good kid, and he means well, but a Saturday morning’s display of Darrin’s culinary skills left me wanting more.
Darrin was assigned to interact with me outside of our Monday afternoon meeting time, so he invited me to his house for a “special” meal that he prepared the night before. I arrived around eight, and he still had not changed out of his Digemon pajamas when he poured me my first glass of “power juice.” Power juice, ironically, did not give me power, only an irregular bowel movement. The liquid was a mixture of Gatorade, tomato juice, and pickle water. I was forced to down three cups.
I didn’t expect a Spanish omelet from the little man, but he could have at least hacked out something more than a bowl of Cheerios with bread crumbs on top. I was hungover at the meal, so everything Darrin said to me sounded like a muffled radio.
He was like, “Do you like it TJ?” I had to force a smile, but I assured him it was one of the best meals I had eaten all week. An obvious lie.
He just leered at me while I ate and really started to make me nervous. “You really like it?” he asked. I nodded. “Well do you like it with fish?!” He asked as he plopped an anchovy he was holding under the table into my bowl. “WTF?!” I snapped. “How am I supposed to eat this now?” He yelled and laughed and ran around his kitchen snickering and pointing at me as I fished the fish out of my bowl. He must have circled me three times before he clipped his head on a half-opened kitchen drawer. Little man went down. He was all crying and like “Owwww, it hurts bad. My face hurts.” But I was like “Man, you gotta chill. Maybe God was mad at you for ruining my breakfast.” With that I peaced out and went to McDonald’s.
Posted by dwright at March 28, 2006 01:35 PM
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