Consider the following (text in bold, comments in italics):

“Thunder’s Bad Day in School,” by Casey Peterson

Note: Thunder is a brontosaurus, and does not resemble in any way the stupid tyrannosaurus rex sticker my teacher slapped on at the end. Gosh.

“Thunder, sit down!” the kids say. So he sat down. Uh oh! Gum on the seat! Thunder is stuck on the seat on the bus.

Notice the detail given to that piece of gum. It’s not just a blob, like the rest of the photo, but actually resembles a chewed wad of Bubblicious. The idea there was that the reader would focus upon that main piece while the other parts of the picture sort of revolve around it.

The driver has to unscrew the bus seat because Thunder is stuck to the seat. Then, as he got to the bus driver’s seat, he couldn’t get through the door. So he had to walk sideways through the doorway.

No human elements were introduced into the picture like the bus driver’s hand to portray the insatiable sentiment of loneliness in a dreary and unforgiving world that Thunder is experiencing presently. Also, the basic ideals of the three-element plot that is implemented in many, many fairy tales begins to take shape here. Problem 1: Gum on the seat. Problem 2: An immovable seat. Problem 3: You’ll see.

When Thunder got to school, he got off the bus, he got into his red line, he got inside the school, and he sat down in his cubby. Then, he gets stuck in his…

To clarify, the “red line” is a colloquialism to my particular elementary school, as it was a line painted on the ground upon which you were until the school opened its doors in the morning. Also, it was cool at my school to sit in your “cubby,” which was pretty much a locker sans door and made of pressed cardboard. We hung our lunch boxes there. You should pay special attention here to the suspense implemented by the discontinuation of the final sentence. Even in kindergarten, I knew that suspense is a vital component necessary for making any climax more exaggerated.

Cubby! Then he goes home with the cubby on his back and the bus seat on his bottom.

Problem 3 has arrived! It’s the cubby on the head, which is pretty much the oldest trick in the book. I like how suddenly I changed my mind about the type of dinosaur Thunder is, which caused me to draw him like Nessie of Loch Ness fame. I did this to convey the inherent feeling of belittlement within Thunder: with the entirety of the world looking upon him, he had to come to terms with the fact that the being he had become was totally different from the Brontosaurus that got on the bus that morning. He was now devoid of all confidence and made his sojourn home, dejected and alone.

By Casey Aostin Peterson, C.A.P.

I included my picture along with Thunder’s on this page to convey the message that Thunder’s tale is not an isolated event. Deep down, aren’t we all a little like Thunder, green and herbivorous? Also, I used the less common spelling of my middle name to make it look fancy and European.

The End

This piece serves two purposes. There’s the obvious fact that it exists to formally end Thunder’s tale of hope and heartache, but there’s something deeper in the conglomeration of pictures gathered below the text. The rain clouds, rain, and mud all serve to convey a motif of sadness and hatred, but the smiling sun in the midst of all of Mother Nature’s fury hints at a small bit of hope: hope that Thunder had, hope that the author has, and hope that, I think, exists deep down in the hearts of every person who is to read this classic piece of modern American literature.

Grocery – Since when did we pronounce the “c” as if it were an “sh?” I say (phonetically) “groshree,” but I can only assume it’s meant to be pronounced “groseree.”

Aisle – Who decided to put an “a” at the beginning of this word? I wasn’t called about it. They didn’t invite me to any U.N. vote on the subject. Did they just assume I would ignore the first letter and not pronounce it “a-iyle” because of the possible homonym clash with Gilligan?

Coupon – Some people pronounce it “coopon.” Others, “C-you-pon.” Me? I go with the former. But the inconsistency of dialect that coupons inspire is enough to irk me nonetheless.

Totally unrelated to what I was just saying, my keyboard just clicked on and off. Odd.

Now then, digressing. I live in Clearwater; it’s the Largo to Palm Harbor and the Inverness to Pinellas Park. It’s medium ground in terms of economic stability, economy, and general public knowledge. I hold my fellow Clearwatereans to a fairly liberal standard when it comes to their education and the manner in which they convey their thoughts and advertisements. Sure, if in a classified ad I see an accidental apostrophe put on a word that is meant to be pluralized, I note the mistake and read on – in the words of Mike Meyers on coffee talk, “no big whoop.”

But this is beyond my tolerance level. I’ve been driving past this building on the corner of Old Coachman and Belcher for years now, and when I’m at the stop light in front of it, I play sort of a game with myself to see if I can spot all of the mistakes in the sign. Granted, there are no actual grammatical errors aside from the name of the business being in all caps, but the fact that whoever owns AMERICAN HOME MORTGAGE cannot fasten letters correctly to a building simply makes me stammer with anger. I would have expected more from my fellow citizens. I’ll point out all of the mistakes in the sign for you now:

1. The first “M” is backwards.
2. The first “E” is upside-down.
3. The first “C” is upside-down.
4. The second “A” is backwards.
5. The second “M” is backwards.
6. The second “E” is upside-down.
7. The third “M” is backwards.
8. The third “E” is upside-down.

Although, those two little American flags make up for everything. They must not be terrorists.

But it’s pronounced “baloney.” Come to think of it, Merriam Webster also defines such a word in that whimsical book of theirs: “pretentious nonsense : BUNKUM — often used as a generalized expression of disagreement.”

So, what we have on our hands here are two different words! Up until five minutes ago, I thought it was “bologna” in all contexts. Like, for example, when that Flick character on A Christmas Story argues with Shwartz about the notion that his tongue would stick to the flagpole, he cries (phonetically), “BALL-OH-NEE!” For sixteen years I always thought it would have to have been written “bologna” in the script, and for sixteen years I thought that such a spelling would be outrageously aesthetically unpleasing. Now I have been shown the light.

But what about other uses of bologna, not necessarily relating to pretentious nonsense? Admit it, it’s a funny word, but you’re telling me, Mr. Webster, that I’m supposed to spell it like you say even when I know full well that’s not how it sounds? When one uses the word “bologna” in somewhat humorous ways, I find that it takes away from the comedy when one spells it as if it were a deli meat.

So, here I am, submitting that whenever we aren’t talking about meat or a city in Italy, we spell it “baloney.”

QED

…sigh.