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Why I Am Late For English Class

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Autor:   •  January 12, 2011  •  3,092 Words (13 Pages)  •  933 Views

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Why I am Late for English Class

Hastily, I dashed through the door of my English class trying to avoid the mandatory three deduction points for being late, however my watch displayed 6:05 pm. Out of breath, I tried to sneak into my chair as if I had not been late at all, then I heard Mr. Foster firmly ask, “Ms. Sanders, why could you not arrive on time today?” “If I can be here at 7:45 am, work ten hours, and manage to arrive here on time, so can you.” I responded to him by saying, “If you were doing what I have been doing for the past 12 hours, you would be late too!” He eagerly asked, “What was so important that took precedence over your English class this evening?” “You better believe, I have heard all the excuses in the world, nothing will surprise me…proceed.”

Well, it all started about 6:00 o’clock this morning. What I thought was my alarm clock rudely resurrecting me from what I describe, as the deepest and most relaxing sleep of my life, was actually the fire alarm in my apartment complex! I rushed to look outside my window to see what was going on. To my amazement, I saw the Pillsbury doughboy looking right at me with his big, round sapphire blue eyes. He was ivory in color and appeared to be squeezablely soft, like Charmin toilet paper. He wore a white satiny baker’s cap that displayed a blue Pillsbury emblem and fashioned a lily-white handkerchief around his neck. Let me remind you that I live on the fifth floor of a high-rise building downtown, so can image how enormously tall he was if he was able to see me through my bedroom window! Suddenly, he broke my window and demandingly said in a raspy voice, “YOU MUST COME WITH ME!”, “BETTY CROCKER NEEDS YOUR HELP; SHE HAS SENT ME TO SUMMON YOU FOR THE PURPOSE OF SAVING DUNCAN HINES AND GENERAL MILLS FROM THE EVIL MARTHA STEWART!” At this point, I was thinking; you have to be kidding! I turned to him and said, “Listen here, Mr. Puff-n-Stuff, I have to be at work in two hours and I must be at school for English class at 6:00 pm.” Doughboy then said, “YOU WILL BE BACK IN TIME FOR SCHOOL, BUT YOU WILL HAVE TO CALL IN SICK TO WORK TODAY, MRS. CROCKER HAS ONLY TEN HOURS TO SAVE DUNCAN HINES AND GENERAL MILLS, WE NEED TO HURRY!”

In disbelief of the current situation, I stumbled to my closet to find some clothes. I established that all I had in my closet to wear was a white chef suit and a blue apron! I thought to myself, have I died and went to Betty Crocker hell? After costuming myself in the fashion-clad outfit, I scurried down to the street to meet Mr. Pillsbury Doughboy. He steadily reached down his hand and scooped me up like a crane. He then placed me in his satiny pillow-like cap and heavily stomped to the edge of the busy town, dodging every path-obstructing skyscraper while avoiding every ant-like vehicle in his course, as if he was in some sort of mouse torturing maze.

We soon came to a stop and Mr. Doughboy safely placed me on the ground and said, “GOOD LUCK MISS. HEATHER; BETTY CROCKER IS COUNTING ON YOU.” He then reached into his handkerchief and pulled out this golden spatula, which was as bright as the blazing sun. I stood there in awe of this spatula, which nearly blinded me! He immediately said, “HERE, YOU WILL NEED THIS.” “USE IT WISELY!” He turned away and to my surprise, burst into pieces of chocolate cookie dough that showered the ground like fresh pelting rain on a spring day. I thought to myself, man this is the craziest thing I have ever seen! Subsequently, I looked around at the fairytale scenery before me.

Directly ahead was a deliciously manufactured two-story cottage that glorified a flower-laden countryside. Lain out in this majestic field, was a variety of iridescent bloom filled bouquets, perfectly placed as if God had sprayed vibrantly colorful confetti out over the land. The overwhelming scent of their massive petals filled the morning air with a sweet intoxicating aroma. The cottage was of sheer brilliance. The roof of the delectable cottage was shingled with gingerbread cookies. Its exterior was accurately bricked with fruit cakes mortared with marshmallow cream; each window was precisely shuttered with blueberry muffins, its door was made of red Twizzlers lined with M&M’s and black licorice, and the porch was paved with chocolate walnut-brownies. As I forced my glazing eyes to break away from the absolute amazement of the sugary compound, I glanced around the stunning environs and noticed a large empty bowl carved from a jumbo coconut with a note attached that read, “IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU HAVE JUST EXPERIENCED A SPONTANIOUS CHOCOLATE COOKIE DOUGH BLIZZARD. YOU MUST PICK UP AS MANY PIECES THIS BOWL CAN EMBRACE, THEN TAKE THE FILLED BOWL TO THE COTTAGE.” In small letters at the bottom of the note warned, “You have only five minutes from the time you pick up the bowl to finish this task. After your five minutes are up, the bowl will melt, destroying your dough pieces, so HURRY!” I dashed around the countryside gathering up the marvelous pieces of cookie dough. I looked down at my watch and noticed that I had only three minutes left to get the bowl to the cottage. Carrying my golden spatula and my anticipating melting bowl, I ran up to porch of the cottage. I impatiently knocked on the door and this oddly familiar young woman with curly fire engine red hair opened it. She wore a straw hat lined with a royal blue sash. She was clothed in a sky blue and white checkered dress, white laced trimmed socks and flaunted shiny black patented leather strapped shoes. Could it be her? I slowly looked up at the nametag displayed so gallantly on her chest. My affirmations were correct! It was Little Debbie! As she gracefully opened the door, she softly said, “You must be here to see Ms. Crocker.” I excitedly replied, “Yes, please tell me what I must do with this melting bowl of cookie dough?” By the look on her face, I must have asked the wrong thing, because she went from Miss Graceful to Miss Attitude in 0 to 60 seconds! She snapped her finger at me and darted back, “Girlfriend, do I look like Miss Betty Crocker to you?” She then twisted her little flaunty frame and attempted to walk back inside the cottage. At this point, my frustration was building. I grabbed her boney shoulder, swiftly turned her around, and calmly said through my teeth, “Well, to be honest with you honey,


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