It was my birthday yesterday. And because my parents are two cheapskate Jews, I ended up with one of those crappy spiral notebooks. You know the ones that you get at the dollar store? Where you put the gay stickers on them and when you decide they look stupid the covers rips off along with the stickers? Yeah, well, they got me one. And Ike, being such a wonderful little bastard of a brother, scribbled "KYLE EATS FARTS" on the inside.
So I'm writing in this to score points with the Obese Nagging Mother. I don't have to do the laundry as long as I write in this at least three times a week. Believe me, I have much better things to do with my time than this, but OK. I'm stuck. So to make it look like a wrote something in this, I'm going to proceed to fill up the rest of the page with writings of the utmost importance.
My name is Kyle. I think my last name makes me sound a block of cheese. I wish that my brother will one day get eaten by angry dolphins. I think dentists are really evil beasts who want to eat you. I have six Playboys stashed under my mattress. I hate writing. A lot. I especially hate writing in this journal. My hat is green. Green is the color of trees. Trees are used to make paper. Paper is in the journal. I really, really hate writing. Did I say that already?
OK, wow. That filled up the whole of six lines. Dammit. Well, since I have nothing I'd like to do more in the whole entire world than write in this gay little notebook, I will commence to explain how well my day went.
I woke up at 4:21 because the car alarm went off. It wasn't even our damn car, it was my neighbor's. The stupid fucking Nissan started bleeping, and I woke up a pissed little Jew. So I got dressed, stuffed my hat on my retarded "daywalker" afro, and made my way downstairs. Ninth grade sucks ass. I have to get up at about 5 A.M. every fucking day anyway, so it isn't much wasted time. The bus was set to come in an hour and forty-or-so minutes, so I groggily stumbled down the stairs and poured myself a bowl of cereal.
Now, because I'm a paranoid freak of nature, I kept looking behind me. I always get this feeling that somebody is watching me. I have no idea why. It's not like I'm the plot of some fucking idiot's story or something, and the author is spying on me while I sleep. I just...I don't know. I feel funny at night.
So I heard this rustling behind me, and I turned around. All I saw was a wall. A few minutes went by, and another rustling was heard. I turned around again. Nothing. I was starting to get freaked out. The third time the rustling began, I whirled around and shouted, "AHAH!" I scared the living shit out of poor Kenny.
It turned out he was just "passing by" (he was probably just seeing if our neighbor's daughter's blinds were closed), and he saw a light on in the kitchen of my house. He let himself in and there he was, scavenging around for some food. He sat across from me in silence. It felt awkward so I gave him a piece of toast. We chewed quietly, and then watched a Jackass marathon until we walked to the bus stop together.
We met with Stan and Cartman. It was too early to strike up conversation, so the bus came. School was the same as usual...until lunch, when Cartman farted. I know it sounds kind of stupid, making a big deal out of a fart, but I still said, ⌠Ew, gross!■ Kenny and Stan rolled their eyes. It was quiet again until another poof from Cartman was heard. This time it smelled like gasoline and dead fish, so Kenny wrinkled his nose and waved his hand in front of him, mock-blowing away the smell. Stan and I laughed while Cartman growled. He picked up my sandwich (obviously not wanting to waste any of his own precious food) and chucked it at Kenny. It hit him square in the face, and, startled by the blow, Kenny fell backwards off the bench on to the hard concrete of the courtyard. A crunch could be heard and a stream of blood shot up into the air.
"Oh my God, you killed Kenny!" Stan shouted melodramatically. I added, traditionally, "You bastard!" And then I got detention for saying the word "bastard" in school. I mean, please. I said "shit" in fourth grade and nobody had a problem with it then. Hell, everybody else is free to let profanities spill from their mouths any other time, but me, no way, I obviously can't.
Cartman says it's because I'm Jewish.