Dinnertime was at dinnertime. But this time, John was cooking. He was cooking something. No one knew what it was. He was grinding his teeth.
Grkgrkgrkgrkgrk
Cootie looked at the food.
“Do you want to kill us?” he asked.
Steam blew out of his father’s ears. His eyes turned purple. “GLUTEUS MAXIMUS OLEEE MAMMONAYAA!” he screamed in pain. He never said “Ouch!” like normal people, I mean English speakers.
“I’m very sorry, but I won’t eat it,” Cootie repeated.
His father pounded the cutting board with his fists and cried, “YOUUUUU! YOUUU NEVER EAT MYYYYY FOOD!”
“WELL, DON’T SCREAM AT ME!!” Cootie screamed back. Now he was angry, too.
“ARGGGGG!” growled his father, his face all red.
Cootie frowned and bit his lip.
John was angry. Really angry. He slapped himself with a rotten cucumber, and slapped himself again with a ripe banana, smashing and mashing it. Then he found another banana and –
“ST-T-TT-TOP IT!” Cootie blurted and spluttered, “THAT’S G-G-G-G-OOD F-F-F-FOOD!” Flecks of foam flew from the boy’s mouth. Saliva dribbled down his chin.
His father realized Cootie was right about the banana and he became even angrier. His lips got all twisted out of shape.
“ARGHGHABRUKRMOOOOHGARGORGOWEEEWONKRPNK!”
“OHHOKAUEEEAAAEOOOUNUUNUU?” Cootie asked.
“ARGHGHABRUKRMOOOOHGARGORGOWEEEWONKRPNK!” his father repeated with amazing accuracy.
“OHHOKAUEEEAAAEOOOUNUUNUU?” Cootie asked again.
Well, after that, things got worse. They said things I don’t dare repeat and hand gestures turned into a violent dance as they threw their bodies on the floor and rolled there, like utterly hapless newborns.
Meanwhile, Rose, the wife and mother, threw up her hands in disgust, walked away and made dinner.
