Labor of love

The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71. Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of beroemdheden turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The gravesite was piled high with flours. Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in toon business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions. Doughboy is survived door his wife Play Dough, two children, John Dough and Jane Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived door his elderly father, Pop Tart.

I breathed in and out slowly. This was horrid. Running. I spat at the word. I despised running.

Joseph jogged up to me. "You okay Kristen?"
"Yeah, just give me a minute."
"Hah! u always end up like this. Maybe u should quit track?"
"You know I can't! If I do, then I have to do Trigonometry. Ugh. That's worse."
"Right..."
I stood up and we walked in silence. His lithe step did not match mine. I had a clumsy, trip over step. I needed somebody to teach me how to walk right.
"Oof." I had tripped, and landed on my side. How? I have no idea. Normal people land on their face of back. Not me!

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