He placed the watch next to his sudoku. He

He placed the watch next to his sudoku. He had to finish the puzzle in under a minute if he were ever to get into the international finals in Beijing. To add pressure, he ate

a steamed Char Siu Pork bun, the mid-competition snack of his nemesis, Dr. Feng. Feng had crushed him on two previous occasions and the smell of the bun transported him back to

that time his mom left him at Denny's. He didn't know why he always thought about it, but who can blame him? Eating a Grand Slam by oneself is an experience even more damaging than

being stripped down to your skivvies in front of your entire bible study class while being spoon-fed marmalade. It was a bad day to quit huffing glue. Father DiAngelo

called Home For Infinite Losers. I punched the barren ground and my in despair and fury screamed "It's over nine thousand WHAT??" But the only thing they could tell me was

my name, rank and cereal number. The test wasn’t over. I was slowly forgetting everything I was, had been. Nine days of

eating nothing but this bland oatmeal. I'm not even sure they were real oats, but what could I do? They had my cereal number. Bowl after bowl piled up, becoming an awful cementy

that encouraged bad Monty Python references. "Look at the bowls!" My companions would cry, as they attempted a horrendous Scottish accent. Life is hell, but

my life is the equivalent of that special place where the Devil himself personally sodomizes you. Maybe I should go back to the day job.