Thursday, March 26, 2009
vintage nonfiction this is. enjoy still.:)
Couldn’t figure it out. I thought at first it was you-know-who, but I should have done so with cunning. Again I attempted by assuming it was he-is-himself, yet I could be disqualified joining this quiz show still without the exact person’s embodiment talking to my face. Futilely I pressed the buzzer and, looking up the ceiling like it could supply the correct words, guessed, “It’s X, right?” “It’s Taquito Sweet,” the quizmaster swiftly pronounced; seconds later I was dragged by the guards and was pushed into the ravine half-filled with black beans labeled “tausi” in the market.
“It’s unfair!” I protested while I wiped away the slimy bean tinge that stained my skin. “From the start I was ill-favored, how much more could I give the perfect answer considering I was poorly reinforced?” In my misery I silenced, meditating how I could leap out of the gaping earth. My mind bulb lit up like I just conceived a brilliant idea of establishing a no-Math school, yielding an intricate plan which might salvage me from twice losing unarmed in an I.Q. (Idiot Quest/ Intelligence Questionable/ Ignoramus, Quite) show.
Rising from the prune pool I rendered myself fit for a mental combat as to unveiling this Taquito Sweet. I hurried home, thrust my survival kit inside a bag, and then began my surveillance. I found myself in the Men’s Dorm neatly stalking, a job in which James Bond was deemed best. Warily I sneaked into the room the person with the physique-less bio data was supposedly lurking (in lurking I meant religious molting of filthy shirts, ceaseless littering of unwashed dishes, anything whatever which could shoot up the already high blood pressure of the house parent).
I waited and waited in my hiding place, afraid I did for Godot. As the good stars would have it, an angelic countenance dashed into the room, seeming weary from class’ torture. “He is the one,” I whispered to myself. I watch him as he casually propelled his tired body in bed: soon he could soar off this planet, as he was fast asleep. Taking advantage of this scene I looked on his hung I.D. which broadcast the initials K.L. in his locker, my eyes fell on “Lantern King” scribbled in various font sizes and styles.
Whether or not his name is King of the Lanterns, he would remain the Taquito Sweet that got me trounced in a mind-above-all contest. I shut up.