Confessions of a

Round-Headed Blond Kid

            by James Nolting

 

I'm fifteen years old, but from the Denny's Child Menu in front of me, it obviously doesn't show. My parents are busy ordering their dinners as I help Ricky the Retarded Raccoon navigate home with my bright red crayon. Thanks to me, he made it through the maze by the quickest route possible. Too bad I had already used my brown crayon to draw Boris the Butt-Busting Bear waiting in that cozy cave at the finish line.

            "And what would you like to eat sweetie?" the young waitress beamed down at me with a gaze I knew was nowhere near mischievous or suggestive. I gathered her name was Shirley from the badge of her substantial chest. I looked her up and down and forgot what I wanted to eat.

            "Um, can I have..." I glanced back down at my menu, trying to remember what I was going to order.

            "Yes, sweetie-pie?" she cooed expectantly. I stared up at her, completely lost for words.

            "Booooobies," I mumbled. Finally, I had remembered what I really wanted to have for dinner.

            "What did you say, baby?" She was still gazing at me with her big toothy smile. My parents were staring at me with confused looks on their faces. I shook my head vigorously and snapped out of my stupor.

            "Oh yeah, uh. Can I have the Brontosaurus Nuggets and a Junior Burger, please?"

            "Oooo! You're a hungry little boy aren't you? Oh, I mean BIG BOY..." She turned and winked at my parents. "Is that all?"

            "And a steak." I said, looking Shirley straight in the eyes. Her smile vanished and I could see her almost take a step back.

            "W-w-what's that p-pookums?" She stammered, unable to break away from my baby-blue-eyed gaze.

            "Cook it rare, too." I shot at her, "I like my cow mooin'." Shirley nodded, unable to speak, and backed away slowly. I picked up my red crayon and resumed detailing Ricky's untimely death.

W         J         Æ

 

            During my trip to Germany, I could visit the local supermarket and pay twelve euros for a case of two-dozen beers out the door. But when I went and bought one beer, two undercover polizei officers confronted me outside the store, snatched my beer and took me to the back room. One of them then asked me, in broken English, if I really thought they would let some twelve-year-old, American, come to their country and buy beer illegally.

            I replied in broken German that they were "assholes" and showed them my passport, proving that I was, in fact, sixteen, and could, therefore, purchase their sacred beer without fear of being banned from Germany for life. They apologized and set me free, at which point I went and bought a bottle of Absinthe and several liters of Vodka with no further interruptions.