One day, we were out and about doing all the fun touristy things that you get to do when you visit countries, and we ended up at this restaurant. To eat. A bunch of fifth graders. Finding food for them is inevitable.
Each of the tables was a separate gazebo. The gazebos had numbers on them. I should tell you now that I am not always a nice person. Unless you cry and then I am only nice because tears scare me. I'm worse than a guy in that department.
Well, my two bestest-fifth-grade-friends and I were in one of the gazebos together. Lets just say the number was 54. We were making passes and handing them out to other students so they could come back to our gazebo. Look. I was in fifth grade. Well, this girl, we'll just call her Shmamber, wanted a pass too. Now, Shmamber was a very pretty, very prissy, kind-of-stuck-up blonde. We didn't like her. She thought she was the shiznit and we knew we were the shiznit, so you see where the conflict would come in.
My friend made her a pass. Whatever. But as soon as Shmamber left to go to her own gazebo, or go stare at herself in a mirror, my friend leans over to me and whispers:
I wrote 52 on her pass. Now she can't get back in.
