Any
unbiased observer of Mike's Sunday morning prep would conclude
the boy inhabited an alternate plane of existence where everything
was suspended in an invisible viscous ether. What I'm saying is: the kid
was slow. He was slower than Christmas. He would be outrun by cold molasses flowing uphill through a coffee stirrer. He was so slow that...well, you get the picture.
By the time Mike finally took his seat in the family
station wagon, there were less than two minutes until old Mr. Marcusey would start the opening hymn.
"Sorry, mom." Mike mea culpa-ed. Turning to his father he remarked, "Well, I guess there's no way you can make it on time now, dad."
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