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coffeehousepunk
zombiedisco101 | |
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Fourth grade. There's a boy named Francine. Calm. Collected. A tough kid. Francine "collected" lunch money from the "poor unfortunates," for Edgar Day-Gas and the gang that couldn't pee straight.
Really. They'd line up at recess on days the playground wind was blowing girls' skirts around like sailors looking for a cove to anchor in for the night, backs to the wind on the edge of Ranker's Toe, and see how far their tiny-dinky streams could fly.
If the wind was right the golden drops would atomize, like something girls in Paris sprayed across their necks before they high-heeled it to a "brassiere" for wine and flirty talk.
Fourth grade's when the girls of Paris, Rome, and other "legged exoticals" made their first entrance in some boys' dreams, in stories from a playground a ways beyond the one at Wilson Elementary. On that playground, fun and games was like an entirely different language, the learning of which often doesn't make the Reader's Digest version of "My Journey From the Momma Oven, So Far."
Which is to shame, what a closed ice cream store is to a summer day.
20091211 01:59 Fri (188 words)
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