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Bongo McTweedlepants

“Go over them again, Davey,” says Bongo McTweedlepants warningly.

Profoctor Davey sighs. “Fine. No cussing, although I never cuss and if I did they’d bleep it.”

“Keep going!”

Davey pulls the list from his wallet. “No reading from my dissertation on eugenics. No putting the kids’ names in limericks. No giggling when I quote Balzac. No discussing forced sterilization for Kentuckians. Okay? I promise!”

“Okay,” says Bongo, still edgy. “Terry, are we almost live? Okay, cue music.”

Theme soooong!

“But I can talk about euthanasia for the colorblind, right?” says Davey, as soon as it fades.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” says Bongo.

Terry

Terry would really like to go to his room, but Aunt Val’s holding an icepack to his face. “I’ve always said!” Uncle Walter smacks a newspaper into one hand. “They underestimate your potential!”

Terry’s lied, said the coaches sent him home after a practice accident. He doesn’t want to say Sorry, Uncle, I got deadbeat Dad’s short thick body, sorry I actually ran into a doorknob. Sorry everyone calls me Squat (what’s a bear do in the woods?).

“What they call football!” raves Uncle Walter. “In my day they’d let you dust off, slap a steak on that shiner and roll!”

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