Erm?

Mehh. Seems that my blog is one of the thousands to fall prey to a troll. A troll with a smart ass tongue but still a troll.
Today's exam was just a big fat scam wrapped up in gift paper. Essentially, i only did 4/6 of the questions in the stupid paper, which also means that i can throw my A1 streak into the bin. History is still pretty blah so i won't mention it. Anyways, heres my new article!

How Do You Get Rid of Evidence?!
So last week I was sitting in my classroom, trying desperately to come up with a humorous article that wouldn’t result in people discussing how crappy it was in capital letters in the comments section, when my trance was interrupted by Damien, who dashed into my office clutching a cardboard box. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it breathing heavily. “Nicholas,” he panted, gasping for air, “I need you to hide something for me.”

“Oh man, no way ,” I replied quickly. As a general rule, I try not to do anything nice, or talk, to any of my classmates at West Spring. This policy, although distancing me from my classmates somewhat and making me the class's “stuck up jerk,” has also steered me clear of the trouble and detention time that would go along with such helpfulness. I should also point out that this rule is twice as important when dealing with Damien, who is a deviant moron.

“Damien,” I said, “you deviant moron.” I sat up straight in my chair before continuing. “I want no part of whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself into, or even to soil my ears by hearing anything about it.”

“I’ve stolen this box,” he said crossing the room in two steps. Before I could stop him, he had shoved it onto my desk.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yes. Thanks Damien, that was kinda obvious. But now I ‘know’ you stole that box, you moron. Which means legally speaking, I will have to turn you in, or blackmail you or something equally stupid. It’s probably one of the two. I’ll have to ask my lawyer, if i had one.” I slumped back in my chair, resigned to my fate. “May I - though I know I’ll regret it - ask what is inside the box?”

He blurted out his response, “I don’t know! I don’t even care! Isn’t that stupid?” Before I could reply, the sound of police sirens in the streets below reverberated into the classroom. Damien sprinted from the room, leaving my planned response (”Yes, very.”) unsaid. I stood up and examined the box without touching it. Plain brown, sealed with packing tape, with a single sticker reading “Neuticles.” Below that, a stamp reading “HANDLE WITH CARE; 2 PCS PER PAX.”

I sat there for a few minutes considering my options. Although my teachers didn't teach me to be a detective, they also didn't teach me to be a complete idiot. Working within those laws, my choice was obvious. I got up, box in hand, and walked to the door, intent on hiding the box in Leon’s locker. As I reached the hall though, the fire alarm went off, no doubt part of Damien’s complex escape scheme. People began rushing out of their classroom, pushing forwards for the stairwell. (Students seem to be very enthusiasthic about fire alarms since it gives them a chance to skip lessons.) Trapped up in the wave of human bodies I was pushed through the corridor, down the stairwell and out of the building.

The crowd thinned out a bit as it spread into the foyer at the base of our building. Crowds formed on the large staircase that leads down to a fountain and the street beyond. At this point, the sensible thing to do would be to set the box down on the ground and walk away. But as I was looking around for a quiet place to stash it, I heard someone calling my name. “Nick? Nick! It is you!”

I turned around to spot Jonas, an ex-classmate of mine. We had broken contact a few years previous, following a disagreement about how many knock-knock jokes a successful career should involve.

“Yooooooooooooooo Joooooonnnaaaasssss,” I said, dragging my words to buy some time for my brain, which had mysteriously just shut down all its conversational functions. Jonas and I proceeded to make small talk for a bit, me through clenched teeth, dragging out each word as I waited for my brain to reboot. If such things were recorded, it would rate very high on a list of the worst conversations ever.

“Do you work for a vet?” he asked unexpectedly, cutting through the conversational block.

I grimaced, confused at this unexpected turn. “No, why?”

“Because you’re holding a case of fake dog testicles.”

I looked at the sticker on the box I was holding. Neuticles. Holy Crap.


“Oh these?” I said, searching for something to latch on to. “These are part of…” I began, smartly. “A…” I continued, after a long time had passed since I had said ‘part of.’ “Business!” I concluded, panting heavily. “A business of mine! That I own.”

“Oh? What sort of business?” he pressed, like he was Sherlock frigging Holmes all of a sudden.

I nodded earnestly, as if I could answer that question simply and honestly, which I couldn’t. Racking my brain for everything I knew about businesses, I finally blurted out “You know that show Little Nonya? It’s like that.”

His face tensed. “You chop fake dog nuts?” he said, summarizing the job I had just claimed for myself.

“Yeaaaaahhhhh,” I said, falling back on my word-stretching trick. I swallowed. “Yeah, you know. The demand on balls? They’re erm, just awesome.” I waved my free hand around trying to come up with a gesture to indicate how amazing the demand on fake dog nuts were. After a few seconds I eventually settled on a vague chopping gesture.

Surprisingly, he nodded. “I’ll bet. My girlfriend got them for her dog. That’s how I recognized the brand name. Anyways, those things are like $150 each.”

Jonas carried the conversation on his own for a little while, but I had no idea what he was saying. Clutching the box of balls slightly tighter to my chest, I ran some quick calculations. I had $150,000 worth of fake dog testicles in my hands. My mind was in a whirl as I stood there in a daze.

Eventually Jonas walked away, perhaps annoyed that I hadn’t said anything in several minutes. After a few seconds my mind landed back to earth, and I began to consider my predicament. It was a bit of a dilemma. The recession had forced people to cut loose ends. Also, my holiday job started paying me in sand dollars. This had understandably affected my wallet significantly, and suddenly the prospect of being a sham dog ball businessman sounded a lot more tempting. Curious, I broke the seal on the box and pried it open.

One-thousand little rubbery blobs, the same shape as a kidney shaped bean. All sloshing around in the box. I picked one up and squeezed it. Squishy.

To be Continued