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8/5/03

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FRANKIE HASKINS  


Why Doesn't Anybody Love Me?

by Frankie Haskins


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 pooper.

In conclusion, I quote the classic story Goodnight Moon: "Good night stars, goodnight air, hose Frankie Haskins everywhere."




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