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Damn Rat

Last week I had the opportunity to lunch at the most exclusive place in town: the Foothill Elementary School cafeteria. The cuisine left much to be desired, but let me tell you, if you ever need a self-esteem boost then this is the place to go. I felt like a giant rock star in a land of very loud and wiggly 3-foot fans. Everyone was clambering to sit next to me, or even be at my table, or touch me with their mustard-covered paws. They were so excited they could barely concentrate to eat in my presence.

The glory didn't last long. My 43 adoring fans squished my pickle and tipped me right off the little tiny bench in the race to see the dead rat under the swing set. I didn't blame them.

As the riot police broke through the mob for rodent clean-up, I slurped the last of my room temperature milk from the waxy cardboard container and snuck out the sidegate, holding fast to the memory of my brush with greatness.

Damn rat.

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