Bonerville broncos always give up

While reading someone else's blog, I had a really weird flash back to my elementary school years. She wrote of the desire to quit life for a day and just snuggle up with a book and some treats in a nest.

We're Bonneville Broncos,
We're still #1! (number one in what, I'm not entirely sure...quality government lunch perhaps??)
Galloping Broncos,
Our work is fun! (false, school work was never fun. Although I do miss the work books that you wrote in and then just ripped out the pages)
We're Bonneville Broncos,
We'll never give up!
We're walking tall,
Friends to all, (also false, I knew plenty of friendless kids)
Bonneville is the best.

That song was just teeming with lies. Anyways, besides bringing that delightful melody back in to my head, I was also reminded of the one read-a-thon that I participated in. It took place on a Friday night. I think it was supposed to be an all-nighter. One was allowed to bring blankets, pillows, and a plethora of treats. The only rule was read or get kicked the hell out. I suppose there were some sub rules that fell under the umbrella of the main rule; if you looked away from your book for more than thirty seconds, or whispered, or laid your head down, they would send you packin' with your blankets.

I recall that my best friend Grey wanted to have a sleepover. I had signed up for the read-a-thon so I guess I had to go. I decided to get kicked out so I could go sleep in my friends fort. Such a decision was frightening, due to the fact that one of the vigilantes was a fat, scary man name Mr. Aikau. He was unscrupulous when it came to terrorizing small children, or so surmised my childish mind.

It started at 4 o'clock. By 7, I was real fidgety. I was sick of reading about Adam Joshua, and I had blazed through my supply of gummy bears. I decided it was time to man up and get kicked out. I yawned. I yawned again. My head and eyes started to droop. My heart was palpitating with nervous fear, as I laid my face down on my book and tried to feign the deep, rhythmic breathing patterns of sleep. I could feel the ground quaking as the fat man approached. My breathing stopped as my heart attempted to heave its way into my throat-I knew death was eminent.
I immediately regretted my decision, as I felt one big, meaty finger jabbing away at my shoulder blades. With a weak attempt at upholding my facade, I slowly, groggily looked up. I'm certain he could see the terror shining in my eyes. I could see my own death gleaming in his. Without a word, he motioned with his ham sized fist and thumb toward the door. Unable to believe that I had not yet been killed, I hastily gathered up my things and scurried for the exit.

The warm evening air had never felt so good as it coursed through my liberated lungs. I vowed then and there to never participate in another wretched read-a-thon. I decided that reading was overrated, and dedicating my life efforts to camping in forts would be the most beneficial thing that I could do.

I have since come to find a happy medium; reading in forts.


Josie said...

you and brian both look like you have down syndrome in that picture. and the hair is so nice. how did you get it so shiny?

Tod Robbins said...

Meaty fingers are the worst. I think you are dead on about reading in forts. It's unfortunate that I can't find myself any moon boots. I really have emotional investment in those boots.

...Oh, the boots have to do with hiking in snow, or something...

Dave said...

That picture kills me. Your brother looks like the child that matt damon would have with himself.

And you were the most cabezon child I have ever seen. your head is literally 3 times the size of your brothers.

Fish, I never appreciated how good looking you are now.

Anonymous said...

I will admit it, my immediate reaction was to place my hand over my mouth, and then mutter, "oh my...."

Glad I met you in the prime of your life.