Thunder’s Bad Day in School
[ 10 Comments ] Posted on 11.23.05 in awesomeness, bad grammar, books
In honor of my 18th birthday, I thought I’d take the opportunity to show you how my genius has remained steadfast throughout my growth. Take, for example, an epic piece I wrote in kindergarten. For 12 years, it has made readers laugh, cry, and inevitably learn something about themselves and the state of mankind.
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.
Going up!
[ No Comments ] Posted on 11.01.05 in awesomeness, friends, high school
When I awoke this morning, I had no idea that this day would amount to what it turned out to be. I rose, took a shower, got my coffee, and went to school as usual, never suspecting that the day would hold anything as wonderful as the events that transpired.
Surprise.
After lunch, I was given the honor of riding in the school elevator for the first time in my academic career. I was on the ground level outside of Mr. Coffman’s room, complaining that I had to walk an unreasonable distance to the stairs so that I could get to my coaching class in Mr. Pete Just’s room – a location directly above where I was. I would have had to walk so far to get to a room that I could physically see.
That’s when Lizzie Wellings lent me her elevator key. God bless her.
The moral of the story: make friends with cripples, because they will make your day that much sweeter.
Chance taken
[ 3 Comments ] Posted on 08.19.05 in awesomeness, food
If you talk to anyone who has known me for more than four minutes, they’ll all tell you the same thing: out of general principle, I am diametrically opposed to most (if not all) forms of affectionate interaction. I say this just to give a general idea of how far I actually went out on a limb this morning.
Every morning, I go to the local Krispy Kreme and order a medium bold coffee (with whole milk and three sugars) before I pick up my carpool (which, by the way, is very funny when Angus tries to get into my super-cramped backseat). I’ve gone every weekday since the start of school and have become quite the regular – most of the time, the lady who serves me every day only charges me 50 cents instead of the usual 99.
But for some reason, today I was driven to change my scheme. Instead of pulling up to the speaker box in the always empty drive thru lane and saying the usual line (“Just a medium bold coffee with whole milk and three sugars, please”), I decided to call her by the name that I had noticed on her name tag two days prior.
“Good morning, Debbie – I’ll just have my medium coffee with who-”
She cut me off and said, “Okay, pull up, sweetie pie.”
My friends, it seems that such a personal remark worked in my favor. Instead of a cup of coffee and the newspaper that comes with it, Debbie treated me to a doughnut in addition to my usual order. It was hot and delicious. Probably even more delicious because it was free.
Either way, this could be a lesson: once you’re comfortable with a person, once you’ve gotten to know them, once you’re no longer threatened by their strangeness, feel free to take that extra step and refer to your fellow human by name.
It might get you a free doughnut.