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.