Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt Fight Over Barack Obama & Babies

“I am fucking sick of this shit. Do you hear me?” said Brad Pitt as he stood in Nike running shorts, barefoot and bare chested. Brad was yelling at a closed bathroom door. In the bathroom sat Angelina Jolie, naked, sitting on a white toilet in Suite 1407 of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan. Angelina’s head was slung forward supported by both palms that were pressed against her forehead as if she were fighting a headache. Angelina sometimes could not figure Brad. She was loving and loyal. She submitted to Brad’s sexual tastes, which were rather pedestrian, thought Angelina. Nothing like Billy Bob Thornton. Billy Bob was unpredictable in everything from sex to food to politics. Yeah, this caused stress at times, but it also kept each day interesting and unique. Like the time Billy Bob sprinkled cocaine all over Angelina’s naked torso and licked it up as he was pumping away. Angelina has white powder all over her face, and the whole thing exploded in one large orgasm, simultaneously, as it should be thought Angelina. Immediately after, Billy Bob wanted to watch Seinfeld with his head on Angelina’s hair. It had to be on Angelina’s hair. And so Angelina let Billy Bob do whatever, and they both belly laughed at the Seinfeld episode.

The unpredictability did not limit it self to sex. You could not pin Billy Bob down on his politics, either. Some days he sounded like the true blue Hollywood Democrat, and on other days Billy Bob was a shotgun toting redneck Republican right out of a trailer park in Texas.

Angelina massaged her forehead thinking that she never had Billy Bob moments with Brad. Brad Pitt, the scion of predictability. Always the missionary position, always with the same exercise routine, always trying to be the politically correct father, always trying to be the politically correct Hollywood Democrat. And always getting angry at predictable moments. Angelina would always know when it was coming. With Billy Bob, his anger was totally unpredictable. Billy Bob could break a table because the waffles were over-cooked or under-cooked, or because the pillows were not fluffy or too fluffy, or because Angelina had not washed her hair or had washed it too much. Angelina never knew what was going to set Billy Bob off. God, she missed those times.

And so what was Brad yelling about? She had predicted it. Brad had been saying that they should get involved with the upcoming presidential race between the Democratic candidates (of course, only the Democratic candidates), and so he asked her which Democrat would she support. Angelina had not thought about it, actually thought it was too early to get involved. But she told Brad that she thought Barack Obama was cuter than Hillary Clinton but that Edwards was too cute. Brad took that as Angelina’s political support for Obama. And so the next day, Bard Pitt came out publicly for Obama and offered to campaign for him. The Obama campaign politely declined, thinking Pitt too Hollywood, and Brad was all in a twit about it.

“Why didn’t you support me with the Obama thing? I look like a fool. Fuck, you have me do things and then I look like the asshole. Carrying the fucking babies around. Hauling your shit from one airport to the next. I am sick of it,” yelled Brad.

“I love you, baby,” said Angelina.  She said it like she said it in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, the feature film Brad and she made together.  Brad was fun back when they made that movie.  But it was all play, shooting guns and fighting with each other was like one long fuck fest for Angelina.  Though at times she had Billy Bob on her mind when they were throwing punches and pressing their lips together on the set.  But Angelina knew that when she reverted to her character in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Brad quieted down, predictably.

“I love you too.  So what are we doing today?” asked Brad.

“I’m going to take a shower baby and then we’ll go back to LA.  How’s that?” asked Angelina.

“You’re the best,” said Brad.

Angelina rose from the toilet, turned on the shower, and got in, washing herself with the large bar of soap that she had purchased earlier that week.  It was the kind of soap that Billy Bob liked. Angelina’s massive head of hair got wet and she let her head fall back and felt the hot water run down her large breasts and pretended they were Billy Bob’s hands.

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George W. Bush Visits The White Rabbit

Grace Barnett Wing slowly moved her legs off the couch where she had fallen asleep. Every movement caused pain in her 68-year old body. Well, not 68 yet, thought Grace. Grace’s birthday was in a few weeks on October 30th, and she planned to have a party all by herself, no friends, no neighbors. Not that she knew any of her neighbors. The wooded area where Grace lived in Northern California was thick with twisted green trees and large white flowers. The breeze from the Pacific Ocean blanketed the flora around Grace’s property with a salty mist that kept the branches guessing which way next to grow. The growth was so dense that Grace could not walk to her neighbors if she wanted to.

The late afternoon sunlight made puzzle shadows on the Persian carpet as Grace’s bare feet touched the floor. She hoisted up so her spine was against the dark green fabric of the couch back. She was now sitting up. She glanced at the six or seven prescription bottles on the Mission end table to her right. Back in 2006, Grace suffered with diverticulitis of the large intestine. But after the surgery, she had an unexplained relapse that forced the hospital to place her in a medically-induced coma for two months. The procedure made it difficult for Grace to walk, and since then had been on many prescription drugs, including pain medication. And she used a cane. The pain in her left hip was bad this afternoon, but she was averse to taking any more medication. Afterall, that is why she had slept for most of the day.

Grace looked at the oil painting on an easel she had been working on for months. It was a painting of Jim Morrison. Grace had three evenings of wild sex with Jim Morrison back in 1968, and Grace was trying to paint something that represented those three evenings. This was not easy since she did not remember much of it. The drugs. The alcohol. At least one or both of them. Morrison could not have remembered much of it either since he was tripping on something.

A loud whack of the large bronze door knocker came from the front door, which she could see from the couch. Who could that be? No one came to Grace’s house unannounced. She was slow to get up, and then the door was whacked again, only this time in threes and louder.

“OK, OK, I’m coming?” said Grace as she walked with her oak cane capped with a red crystal sphere.

Grace opened the door. Two men dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses with their hands clasped in front stood at attention.

“This the Slick residence?” asked the one on the left.

“Yes. What is this about?” asked Grace.

“Are you Grace Slick?” asked the one on the right.

“Yes. Yes. What do you gentlemen want?” asked Grace with a stern voice that did not have the same strength as back in the days when she was singing with the Jefferson Airplane.

The suit on the right pushed passed Grace and walked into the house. The suit on the left stayed immediately outside the front door.

“Hey, you cannot just come in here. I’m going to call the police,” said Grace. Grace was worried. Had she not paid her taxes? Do they know that some of her pain medication was obtained over the internet from Canada in not the most legal of means.

The suit in the house walked around, poking his head in the kitchen, he opened the bathroom door, a closet door. He paused at the oil painting of the Morrison-Slick sexual encounters. He pulled out a walkie. “Everything seems to be safe here. You can bring him in,” said the suit into the walkie talkie.

“Bring who in?” asked Grace.

The sun was low and was bursting through the front door, silhouetting the man who walked in. When he stepped deeper into the great room where Grace’s couch and painting were, Grace focussed her eyes on the man. She could now see his face. One suit remained inside the house, the other outside. Grace saw other vehicles in the circular driveway, as well as other suits ambling around the grounds, all with there hands clasped in front, as if they were robots.

Grace felt like this must be a dream. Some kind of dream. Here right in front of her was a man she thought to be, it certainly looked like, yes, it is the….no, it couldn’t be. It is the damn pain medication. She was delirious.

“So I finally get to meet the famous Grace Slick,” said the man.

“OK. OK. I think you do a great impression of President Bush. That is cool….but….”

“You use a cane? But I can still see the Grace Slick I had a crush on. Oh, wow. This is…this is amazing to me,” said George W. Bush.

“This is not happening. You are not Bush. This is all some kind of fucking mind trip. You are with the media? Rolling Stone? Blender? Spin? You assholes have been trying to get in here for years. Well, fuck you. Tell me where you are from?” asked Grace Slick.

“I am trying to wrap up stuff, you know, for myself, during my last year…my last year as President. Meet the people that influenced me. That changed me on some level. You are one of those people,” said President Bush.

“What? Me? I changed you? This is like a joke, right?” said Grace.

“White Rabbit. That song White Rabbit changed my life. I still have the very same Surrealistic Pillow album. It’s in the Oval Office. I keep it their for good luck,” said Bush.

“OK. That’s good to know,” said Grace, flummoxed beyond comprehension. She had now come to the conclusion that this was indeed the President of the United States. And it appeared to her, at least, that the man had lost his mind. The world was falling apart, she thought, and here Bush was in her house talking about a song she wrote back in late 1965 for the group she was with before the Jefferson Airplane called The Great Society.

“And Alice In Wonderland is my favorite novel,” said President Bush. “You know I have been reading a lot of biographies of Presidents. They were actually very very boring reads. I skipped a lot. My life, well…anyway, I went back to Alice In Wonderland a few weeks ago. Read it on Air Force One. There’s a lot in there,” said Bush.

“So why exactly are you here, again?” asked Grace.

The hookah-smoking caterpillar…I just love the lyrics. White Rabbit builds and builds to its finale, until you sing “Remember what the Dormouse said. Feed your head. Feed your head Love it, just love it,” added George like a high school kid.

Grace was feeling weak in the knees, and so backed up and sort of plunged back onto the couch.

“I can see you have had some medical problems. Alcohol. I know about that. But we both licked it. We both licked it. We have a lot in common, Ms. Slick. And I wanted to thank you for all the fantasies you gave me. You were really my first crush. Oh boy, did I want to…well, you know. I was young. I just wanted to meet you, touch you. And here you are, right in front of me. I am so lucky,” said Bush.

Grace stared at Bush. She was not angry. She was not sad. On some level, she felt special, like possibly a new chapter in her very tired life might be forming. But then, why would she want any chapter to be with this man. Then she had a rush of anxiety, like this was some mind trick. The Xanax. Where had she put the Xanax.

“I can see that you are having some difficulties. But I wanted to tell you thank you. Thank you for being you, for having that great voice, for writing and singing White Rabbit. It fed my head alright. And when the polls show that I am like in the trash heap, I blast White Rabbit on my stereo in the Oval Office. Dick. Dick Cheney hates the song. Screw him,” said George.

“We have to go, sir,” said the suit in the house.

“We probably will not ever meet again, but I consider this to be a supreme pleasure,” said Bush as he glanced over at the oil painting. “What’s this of? This your work?” asked Bush.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “It’s Jim Morrison and me fucking each other over a three-night drunken weekend in London back in 1968.”

“Really. Really. Damn, I wanted to be Jim Morrison so bad. Just for like a week. Got to go,” George said as he offered his hand to Grace. Grace reached up, and then shook hands briefly. George turned and walked toward the door.

“Who else you seeing on your little last-year-of-the-Presidency tour,” asked Grace.

George W. Bush turned his head just as the suit in the house was about to follow him out.

“Micky Dolenz. He was the coolest Monkee. I hear he’s in New York now,” said Bush.

The President walked out the door, followed by the suit who shut the oak door from behind. Grace lied back down on the couch, but she did not have the energy to lift her legs, her bare feet remaining on the carpet. She closed her eyes and dreamed what the world would be like if she had never written White Rabbit.

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Britney Spears Tips The Scale At 169 Pounds

Britney Spears took a shower in the pink and white checkerboard tiled bathroom that was on the second floor of her Los Angeles beige stucco house. The bathroom was actually two rooms, one containing a toilet, a bidet, two sinks and a closet. The other, just as large, was entirely tiled as a shower with four shower heads. It was about two hundred square feet in size, and Britney had all four shower heads going at once. She moved around the shower room from shower head to shower head, letting the water hit her nearly bald head, something the public had not seen lately. She also massaged her belly and buttocks as she moved with a bit of a bounce, humming to herself Mary had A Little Lamb. Britney had been biting her nails to the quick to the point where they had started to bleed, which, in addition to the wig, required her to wear fake nails when she went out in public. Britney thought of how it was easy to put a wig on and put fake nails on, but it was not so easy to put on a thin body. Afterall, she had gained weight. Lots of it.

About an hour before stepping in the shower room, Britney had stepped on the digital scale. It read 169, as in pounds. Britney had not been on the scale for two months. So it came as a shock to see that she was now two pounds more than her weight immediately prior to giving birth to each of her children. She stepped off the scale and started to cry. In fact, she became hysterical. She fell to the floor of the bathroom, naked and sobbing. She tried to curl up into a fetal position, but her girth prevented her from achieving that goal. She rose and looked into the mirror above the double sinks. Britney had forgotten to remove her makeup, and because of the tears, her face was lined with streaks of eye liner. She grabbed her breasts and felt that they had dropped like balloons half filled with water. She opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the dozen or so prescription pill bottles. Britney grabbed one after the other. Vicodin. Hydrocodone. Percoset. Demerol. Oxycontin.

“No. I can’t. I am not going to,” Britney muttered to herself.

She slammed the medicine cabinet door shut and grabbed her purse that was sitting on a pink wood chair. She removed a pack of Marlboro Lights, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a 18 karat gold lighter from Tiffany. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and returned to the mirror. There you go. The cigarette gave her some comfort. The smoke shielded the face, and she looked, well, she looked cool. Sort of. But this moment of contentment lasted for maybe a minute. Britney felt the panic return, and so she opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Oxycontin bottle, removed the cap and swallowed four pills, without the assistance of water. She actually took a drag on the Marlboro as if that would help get the pills into her stomach. Britney had never taken four Oxycontin at the same time before. So this was new. This was going to be exciting. But she needed it. And that is when Britney turned on the four shower heads and stepped into the shower room, totally naked, her arteries filled with the drug and the Marlboro in her mouth.

“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow,” whispered Britney as she slowly danced around the shower room.

“Britney had a little life, little life, little life. Britney had a little life, its time was sure to go,” lip synced Britney as she slipped and fell to the floor of the shower room. Because of the Oxycontin, she did not feel the force of the fall. Britney’s elbows were bleeding, and if she could see her buttocks, she would see a large blooming bruise that was quickly turning from red to blue.

Britney lied on the shower tiles, the shower heads going full blast, and she laughed. To herself, just above a whisper. Almost a cackle. She grabbed her fatty stomach. She grabbed and grabbed as if she was looking for something.

“I can’t find my stomach muscle. I can’t find my stomach muscle. I know you are there. I know you are there. Come out., come out wherever you are,” laughed Britney Spears.

Britney’s head slowly came to rest on the shower floor, her eyes closed and her mouth opened. She went into a very deep sleep. An unconscious sleep. The kind of sleep where there are no dreams. And that was good for Britney. Because any dreams right now would be bad ones.

The sound of the shower mixed with Britney’s snoring and the steam from the shower room billowed out into the bathroom fogging the medicine cabinet mirror which revealed Britney’s fingerprints.

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George W. Bush Proposes The Secret To General David Patraeus

George W. Bush sat on the end of the double bed in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House. He was in his boxer shorts that were emblazoned with hundreds of small wavy American flags, and white socks that were pulled up to the top of his calves. Goerge’s left hand cupped his belly which had grown in the last six months. He was squeezing the fatty flesh of his mid-section. The midnight deliveries of Cherry Garcia ice cream together with the recent gorging of bread with butter had taken minor toll on the shape of George’s body. Instead of three scoops, George thought, he would instruct the kitchen staff to bring him just one scoop, one large scoop, of ice cream. And he really had to stop with the bread. But he had an urge recently to drink beer, and that urge was satisfied by carbs. George knew this, and that is why his entire left hand was filled with George W. Bush’s belly fat.

George had the White House staff install a Sony Blu-Ray deck together with a fifty-inch high definition LG liquid crystal display which sat on an oak wood stand, the deck immediately below on a shelf. As George played with his belly fat, he held in his right hand a remote control. To the left of him on the bed, sat the DVD case for the documentary, if that is what it can be called, of The Secret. George watched the DVD a few nights ago, at midnight, of course, while he was eating ice cream and hallah swabbed with butter. The Secret had captivated the President, and he was watching it again. But this time he insisted that General David Patraeus watch it with him.

General Patraeus was standing, fully dressed in his uniform, as he always did the few times he had visited the President at the White House. The General had never been in the Lincoln Bedroom before, and he felt it would be disrespectful to sit in the very room where President Abraham Lincoln had his office. In fact, the General thought it quite inappropriate that Presidential guets were having sexual congress in the room where a President did his work. But maybe he was not in touch with the times. Afterall, here was the current President in his skivvies sitting on the edge of the bed with legs dangling off the mattress which was elevated like old beds often were, so much so that George W. Bush’s socked feet were a good six inches off the floor. The President had his ankles crossed and he was beating them backward and forward as he spoke.

“I think I have found the answer to our problems in Iraq,” said President Bush.

“Yes, sir,” answered the General in a manner that was filled with cautious anticipation.

“I listened very carefully to your testimony before Congress. It was negative,” said the President.

“Negative, sir? I thought it was honest, but as optimistic as I felt I could be,” said the General.

“That’s the problem. This DVD here. On my new Blu-Ray player. It’s pretty cool. See the picture. So it is all about the Law of Attraction. OK, it is a Law of the Universe. And it is something we need to incorporate into our war plans,” said President George W. Bush.

“I’m not familiar with this Law. Is it a Christian doctrine?” asked the General.

“No. No. I am not giving you any of that evangelical whatever. It is a physical law. A law of science. Listen. It is simple. You think positive thoughts, you think that good things will come to you, then good things come to you. Those thoughts make you attract good things, get it?” said the President.

“OK. Yes. My father had Norman Vincent Peales’s book The Power of Positive Thinking. Is that what you mean, sir?” asked the General.

“No. No. That was about how you can pick up girls, I think. This is about becoming a billionaire or winning wars. We need to have everyone of our troops watch this DVD and starting thinking of winning the hearts and minds of the Iraqis. Of winning the war. If they think it, they will be come magnets for the very thing they are thinking about,” said Bush.

“We have over 130,000 troops, sir. How do you expect me to set it up so that they all can watch this video?” asked General David Patraeus.

“General, please. We send over thousands of DVD players. No Blu-Rays, like this. Just plain ones. Plus thousands of this DVD. Do it on, I don;t know, on rotation, when they get a day break, or something. But they need to watch this right away. It might be our only hope,” said the President.

“Sir, if I may ask, we are still waiting for Hummvees with under-carriage shields as well as full Kevlar body armor,” said the General.

“If your guys think about love, they will get love and not bullets. They will not need the Kevlar body thing,” said the President.

The General did not respond. General Patraeus had recently watched the movie Hitler: The Last Ten Days starring Alec Guinness. Oddly, he watched the movie on an old VHS deck at his home with his wife Holly. Holly insisted that her husband watch the movie. Sir Alec Guinness, thought the General, portrayed a man who had lost touch with reality, and no one was willing to tell him. Holly would not say why she wanted her husband to watch the movie. She just said it was important. And so David watched it. They went to bed early. But David could not sleep that night. Neither could Holly. They did not speak of what they were thinking. And now General David Patraeus was stanidng before the Presient in his boxer shorts and he was reluctant to tell Mr. Bush what he was racing through his mind.

“You listening to me, General?” asked President Bush in a strident voice.

“Yes. Yes, sir. I will consult with our commanders on how to coordinate the distribution of these DVDs so that our troops can have the guidance you seek for them,” said the General. he did not believe he just said what he said. But he said it. He was hoping the President would come to his senses, and someone else would talk him out of the idea. If the DVDs never arrived, then he would not have to deal with the issue.

“Good. This is the answer. This is the answer to all those cowards in Congress who fear that we do not have a plan to win. Who do not have the fortitude to win this war. America never gives up. At least this President won’t,” said the President as he turned up the volume on the LCD display.

“I like this part, General. See how she gets the jewelry she was imagining she would get. She thought of having jewelry, and so she attracted it,” said the President as he stared at the monitor.

“Yes, sir,” said the General. “Yes, sir.”

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No Child Left Behind Means No Childhood

At 7:30 in the morning, Bobby’s father walked into Bobby’s bedroom and opened the shades. The noise and the light woke Bobby.

“Time to get up,” said Bobby’s father.

Bobby could barely open his eyes. He fell asleep sometime after 11:00 the night before because of the math problem that had plagued him all evening.

“Wash up and get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs,” said Bobby’s father as he walked out of Bobby’s bedroom.

Bobby lives in a middle-class suburban community outside of New York City. Bobby just started sixth grade. Middle school. He is twelve.

Bobby dragged himself to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. “Yuck,” Bobby said as he saw a huge pimple on his cheek. Bobby washed his face and did whatever he could to rid himself of the offending blemish. He could smell his own body odor, so he took off all his pajamas and quickly hopped into the tub and turned on the shower. He washed, brushed his teeth and dressed in his bedroom. He made it to the kitchen table at 7:58 AM, where French toast and a glass of milk was waiting for him.

Bobby’s father was on the laptop computer which sat at one end of the kitchen counter.

“You finish your homework?” asked Bobby’s father as he tapped on the laptop keyboard.

“Yeah, sort of,” said Bobby.

“You either did or didn’t. Which is it?” said Bobby’s father.

“I couldn’t figure out that math problem,” said Bobby.

“Hey, it’s 8:10. We got to go,” said Bobby’s father as he shut down the laptop and grabbed his car keys. “I’ll warm up the car.”

Bobby’s father walked out the back door of the kitchen to the steel grey Chevy Tahoe SUV.

Bobby couldn’t finish the french toast. It was cold and soggy and the milk didn’t taste good either. He looked around for his book bag and realized that the bag and his zippered cloth binder were both upstairs. He ran upstairs, grabbed the bag and binder and raced downstairs, knowing that his father often was aggravated to wait.

Bobby ran outside and felt the eighty degree heat of early October. It felt like summer. Bobby ran to the Chevy Tahoe and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” said Bobby’s father as he pulled out of the driveway, before Bobby was able to clip the buckle.

Bobby noticed that the time on the dashboard clock read 8:18. “That clock is fast, right?” asked Bobby.

“By a minute, maybe,” said Bobby’s father, who was driving faster than the town’s 25 mile speed limit. Bobby was knocked around the seat as his father turned corners and stepped on the accelerator to get Bobby to school on time, which was supposed to be 8:20 in the morning. The Chevy pulled to a fast stop behind a line of cars.

“Better get out here and run. Love you,” said Bobby’s father. “Love you too,” said Bobby as he opened the car door, slammed it shut and ran into the middle school building. Bobby did not have time to stop at his locker, so he dashed into Room 415, his homeroom, at 8:26.

“You’re late. Go get a pass from the school office,” said Miss Lowery, Bobby’s home room teacher. Bobby ran downstairs to the office. There was a small grouping of teachers in the office and Bobby was waving his hand. “I need a late pass,” said Bobby.

One of the school administrators, Miss Joseph, said “You are too late for a late pass. What is your name?”

“Bobby MacKay,” said Bobby.

“I will make a note that you are late for even a late pass. Now run to your first class. Homeroom is over,” said Miss Joseph.

Bobby turned and ran out the office door into the corridor which was already thinning from the student rush to the first class.

“Hey, no running in the halls,” said a teacher to Bobby. Bobby slowed down, but he had to make it to Room 345 before the start of class at 8:30. The music teacher locked the door at 8:31. She told the music class she added the minute because she was “kind.”

By the time Bobby made it to Room 345, the door was closing, and the music teacher nearly shut the door on Bobby’s arm as he pushed his way in.

“Young man, you think that appropriate behavior to push the door open like that? Take your seat,” said the music teacher to Bobby. Bobby took seat number 23. There were 30 seats in the classroom, each with a number, and his music class seat number was 23. Bobby had to write these all down during the first week of school because each class assigned a different seat number and the students were expected to remember their seat assignment.

So the music teacher talked about musical instruments to a class of 27 students. Bobby seat was in the back of the classroom, immediately behind him were cleaning supplies and a three-foot pile of Discover magazines. To the right and left were two boys, neither of whom Bobby knew the names of, though he had a vague memory that the dark hair one to his right was Nick.

Bobby tried very hard to listen to the music teacher describe each instrument, which she did partially from reading directly from her notes written on paper attached to a pink clipboard. The bell rang at 9:15. Everyone lifted their butts at once.

“park your butts back down,” yelped the music teacher in a piccolo voice. “You leave when I tell you to leave. I want everyone to write an essay of what I spoke of today, detailing the seven different instruments I described, and then making a case for why you wish to play one of them. Make a decision which one. Now you can go,” said the music teacher, waving her hand dismissively.

Bobby rose and looked at the clock. It read 9:16. Spanish started at 9:18. Bobby realized that he had his Spanish notebook in his locker. He ran out of Room 345, down the hall, made a right turn and found his locker. He turned the wheel of the combination lock, back and forth several times before the combination stuck and the locker handle rose and the door opened.

The Spanish notebook was yellow. Yellow. Where is it, Bobby thought to himself. There. He grabbed it, slammed his locker shut, turned the wheel of the combination lock and ran down the hallway.

“Stop running, young man,” said Mr. Whoever. Bobby slowed and arrived at Room 217 at 9:20, two minutes late. The Spanish teacher did not say anything. Indeed, the door was open, and he took seat number 13.

“Your name?” said the Spanish teacher, directing her attention to Bobby.

“Bobby MacKay.”

“Mr. MacKay, you are in Seat 15,” said the Spanish teacher.

“Oh. Sorry.” And so Bobby moved to seat 15 and opened his yellow Spanish notebook.

The Spanish teacher spoke in a slow deliberate manner, pronouncing words clearly, but never speaking English, except when she disciplined students. Bobby took notes, but had difficulty following along. The girl to his left, Christine, was Korean with long straight black hair. Bobby noticed that her notebook was full of carefully written notes. The Spanish teacher seemed as bored as Bobby felt, but since Christine was writing notes in a lively fashion, Bobby figured there was something wrong with him. Maybe the Spanish teacher was having a great time, even though she kept sniping at students for not paying attention.

The bell rang at 10:02, and Bobby was off to his Social Studies class that started at 10:06. he thankfully arrived on time. But the problem now was that Bobby had to go to the bathroom. He asked Mr. Jordan if he could be excused, but Mr. Jordan said that since lunch period was next, Bobby could take care of his business then. So Bobby held it. And it wasn’t easy. This was particularly so because the lesson in Social Studies was to locate positions on a map of the United States using longitude and latitude, and to work with a team, requiring Bobby to move around the room, making his bladder nearly burst with every movement.

The bell rang at 10:50. Lunch time. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Lunch at 10:50? Yep. And as Boby ran to the bathroom in the hallway, he realized he had to crap as well as piss. He only had till 11:16 to finish lunch. That is a mere twenty minutes. So in that twenty minutes, Bobby had to crap, wash up, run to the cafeteria, get on line, get his food, pay for his food, find an empty chair, sit and eat. By the time Bobby sat down with his tray of food in front of him to eat, the time was 11:14. Bobby stared at the food. He was not hungry. he felt a pain in his belly. And he was breathing heavily. The bell rang, and he walked to his next class which started at 11:16. So really, Boby thought, he had less than twenty minutes to eat because he had to get to his 11:16 math class. And that is the class he was dreading because he was not able to finish the math problem the night before.

The rest of the day was a daze. When Bobby got home at 3:22, all he could remember was the math teacher tearing up his work, yelling at him that he got the formula wrong saying “you obviously did not listen during the lesson.”

Bobby’s mother greeted him at the back door. “Have a good day, Bobby?” asked Bobby’s Mom.

“Yeah,” said Bobby, who was too tired to say anything else about the last seven hours.

“Hungry?”

“”I have a stomach ache,” answered Bobby.

“Your piano teacher is coming in fifteen minutes, so why don’t you practice a little before he comes. You know he was disappointed last week,” said Bobby’s Mom.

“OK.”

So Bobby walked into the living room and sat at the piano and stared at the eighty-eight white keys. He kept staring, and thinking of nothing. Nothing at all. Except he remembered then that he left his binder in his locker with all his homework. He had homework to do in math, Spanish, Social Studies and language arts. He also had to write that essay for the music teacher.

“Mom….Mom?” yelled Bobby. But then he looked out the window and saw his Mother playing with Bobby’s four-year old sister. Bobby got up from the piano stool and lied down on the couch and stared at the ceiling fan that was turning slowly.

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