Why Doesn't Anybody Love Me?
When you're 7-year-old Frankie Haskins, you're
used to getting hosed constantly. Not in the Father
Flanagan who-got-transferred-to-St. Anthony's sense,
but pretty much every other which way.
For example, let's take this morning. I was abruptly
awakened when my jerk-face teenage brother started
blasting the easy-listening sounds of Korn through my
bedroom wall. It was so friggin' loud, I wet my
favorite Pokemon pajamas and sheets. Then I discovered
that my stinky teenage sister ate the last Pop-Tart,
so I had to have Cream of Wheat for breakfast.
After getting pantsed on the bus for having the name
"Francis," I finally got to school. In gym class, I
was picked last for baseball, right after the kids
from "special class" and the kid with the prosthetic
leg were chosen. When I went to check out what Mom had
packed for me in my lunchbox, I found an Armour Potted
Meat sandwich, celery, and boiled cabbage. Then at
recess, my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend stood me up for a
kid who can belch the entire alphabet.
After another pantsing on the bus ride home (this time
for getting pantsed on the bus in the morning), I
finally made it home. I figured that I could at least
salvage the day with a nice cold glass of Kool-Aid. As
it turned out, Mom wouldn't let my dad go to the
neighborhood bar for a beer after he'd had a rough day
himself, so he drank the last of the Kool-Aid. So Mom
gave me V-8 juice instead. Talk about taking it up the
In conclusion, I quote the classic story Goodnight
Moon: "Good night stars, goodnight air, hose Frankie