Maple, the Drunken Smartass Tree

Tale of an Eight Year Old Randall

I decided that I wanted to leave my band of hellions and become one of the cool kids.  I decided that in order to prove myself I had to be the first person to win at Monster tag, excluding all the times someone won by catching the slow, fat kid.

Monster tag was a retarded game we had invented, which was to be played on the playground.  The person who was 'it' had to make stupid monster noises and couldn't climb on equipment on the playground.  So, naturally everyone who wasn't 'it' would climb to the highest point on the playground and deride the monster.

We were bright enough to know that being the monster sucked, but we were still dim enough that we kept playing the game anyway.

You must be at least this stupid to lose at monster tag

We gathered at the playground during recess and as usual, no one wanted to be Monster.

Children, fair and balanced.

"I'll do it," I said.

The crowd gasped and whispered that I had gone crazy.


No one had ever volunteered before, usually the group just shouted at each other until the mob reached a consensus, and the selected person resigned to their fate.  The mob silently agreed that I was the Monster and they scrambled to the safety of the top of the playground where they could try to spit on me.  Except for John, the cool kid.  He was a daredevil, standing on the bridge, which left his feet within my reach.

 
John: one lanky fucker.

This was it.  I just had to run forward, leap, and tag my way to coolness.

Feel good release of the year is how I sometimes describe my farts.

I unleashed a gutteral growl and channeled my strength into my legs.  One, two, three steps... jump











aaaand...






















I shrugged off the devastating blow I had just received, crying wouldn't help make me cool.  My head was throbbing, but I heard John descend to a lower platform.  Only an idiot would give me another chance.   I let out a deafening roar, it would have made a terrifying war cry. 

John was standing on the lower platform, he wore a concerned look on his face.  I saw that fat Mike was standing atop the ladder with the rest of the kids behind him who had come down to see if I was okay.  John couldn't escape up the ladder, and there was no way he could outrun me on the ground.  My legs were still powered with all of my strength. 

John spoke "Randall, you're bleeding!"  Pfft, what a lame stalling tactic. 

I was mere seconds from my triumph.  Waitaminute.

  Your story checks out.

 My head REALLY hurt.  I felt a blood trickle reach my eyebrow.  Uh oh.  Maybe I'd better get some help.  I left my friends and ran off to find the nearest teacher on yard duty.  I saw my  teacher, Mr. Farley a short distance away.  I approached him from behind and unsure of what to say, I said "Uh, can you help me?"  My voice was barely a whisper, too much of my strength was tied up in my legs and battling the pain in my head, so I didn't properly convey the urgency of the situation.

 Unfortunately for me, Mr. Farley was a Manners Nazi, anyone who didn't phrase their questions politely were not worth his time, so he said "No," and walked away without looking back.  He didn't realize I was injured, he was expecting me to follow him and ask again with the word "please."  However, in my panic I didn't realize this and wandered off to find someone who would help.  By this time, blood was gushing out of my head.  My entire face was covered in blood when I ran into my classmate William. 

 Level of blood: actually not exaggerated.

Wasting no time he grabbed my arm and dragged me to toward the school, passing by students who couldn't believe what they were seeing.  We made it inside and began passing more dumbstruck students. 

As Murphy's law would have it, the teacher's lounge was on the opposite end of the school from the playground, so we had to walk the length of the building much to the chagrin of the janitor who had to mop up the blood.  We entered the teacher's lounge and stood there in silence,  all at once the teachers looked at me the same stupid look affixed itself to each of their faces. 

National Synchronized Horrified Facial Expressions Team

Then a chorus of "Randall, what happened?!"

"I killed my head."

The next day in class everyone was interested in my stitches, and people were retelling the story of my facebridge.  Cute girls would touch my stitches then pull their hand away quickly and giggle.  "That's nothing, I heard that Dr. Quackers gave him a needle in his head too!" Fat Mike shouted.  Then John told me "Randall, you're so cool." 
  
I still have a badass scar, but somewhere along the way I lost my coolness.