If my school morning mentality could be expressed by a trumpet I’d say it would sound like a half hearted push of air squeaking out from the brass muzzle like a fat kid farting on a hard plastic seat—a real elephant trunk wheeze if you will, that trails off as I roll over and snooze some more. In case you need my crass opinion to understand, mornings blow, and if Garfield were real I’d give him a pound right now.

On this particular morning I was chatting to my buddies in home room when an all too nosey Mrs. Pierce eaves dropped in uninvited. “Tad, I would like to see you in the hallway please.” Her tone annoyed me.

“I can see that you bleached your hair and I heard that you havn’t told your parents.”

“Uh-huh, you OVERheard. I did it last night and went right to bed, woke up this morning late,” in a wheeze I thought “after my parents went to work.”
“Yes, well, it’s a disturbing thing to know, it being picture day and all.”

Mrs. Pierce—always wanting a part in the punishment. What a crab!