Kwashiorkor

The first time we ever had some Kris Kringle of sorts was in Grade 6, and the original plan was to do it weekly. The first theme: something soft. Yes, that was the best we could come up with in grade 6. The plan for the succeeding weeks: something red, something round, something that rhymes with herzegovina, etc. Friday came and we brought out our gifts, and to everyone’s juvenile shock (is there an aged shock?) Borborygmus received a used sanitary napkin. It didn’t smell like blood, in fact it smelled like lipstick. The culprits of course had a good laugh, but not our religion teacher who was livid. She declared that all Kris Kringles were to cease immediately. Someone suggested that instead of gifts maybe we could just exchange letters weekly. Barf, I know, but the nun agreed, satisfied. Until I suggested that for the first week, the theme would be insulting letters. The nun was enraged and almost popped an aneurysm, so no further sanitary napkins or insulting letters got exchanged.
A year before that Borborygmus was believed to have tried to kill himself. He allegedly took in a bunch of diazepams, because he was found slumped unconscious on the ground. Apparently, he was in love with this girl G, who was in love with this boy B. It would have been a simple case of jealousy, except for the fact that Borborygmus was also in love with boy B, who was not in love with anyone. This was all too confusing, hence the diazepams. Of course he got well and all (our HELE teacher force fed him spoons and spoons of sugar), and during recess the next day he elaborated that in his unconscious state he saw Saint Peter who told him that, of course, it was not yet his time. “Does he really have a rooster?” Kwashiorkor asked. “It was a beautiful scene, with St. Peter showing me the error of my ways,” Borborygmus beamed. “Is the rooster fat?” Kwashiorkor asked. And so on. I have no idea where Kwashiorkor, Borborygmus, G, or B are right now, or if they even remember any of this. I hope they don’t.



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