A tale of two Fogles
Mood:
Oratory
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The familiar leathery texture again struck his face. His frames flew in one direction, both lenses in the other. His velcro shoes failed him; the floor soon met his face. It was not a pleasant greeting.
At 15 and a rising second grader, Jared Fogle was by now used to this kind if treatment. It wouldn't have been so bad had it been limited to gym class, but young Jared was waddling his way to remedial math when this latest insult came.
Coach Niedzwicki let out a terrifying cackle. "That's how you play dodgeball, kids," he said, picking up his trusty Spalding.
"But coach!" Jared whined, struggling to locate his lenses with his stubby ass hands. By now it was too late -- Larry Franklin had inadvertently stepped on the left frame, and little Suzy Whitacker had slipped the right frame into her pocket (this was, it should be noted, years before she became a thieving whore, but even at this young age, theft still came naturally to her).
"My parents are going to kill me," Jared said to himself as he slowly rose to his hands and knees, and now with one foot on the ground, and now again back to his hands and knees, gasping for air. This sentiment was impossibly optimistic -- his parents had long ago fled the country to escape their tarnished past, which included a poor showing on Family Feud and producing Jared.
His lenses now gone along with what little dignity he had left, Jared left the school premises and wandered aimlessly along the streets. He walked until he could walk no further, coming to a halt a half-mile from the school.
"Well don't you look plum tuckered out!" a man wearing an old Members' Only jacket and tight-fitting leather pants exclaimed. "Come in and take a load off, youngster."
The man took Jared's hand, helping him up and into the nearest building. Missing his glasses, Jared struggled to make out the sign above him as the kind stranger pulled him into what appeared to be an abandoned Rite Aid. North...American...Man...Boy...Love...Association. For Jared Fogle, things were about to take a turn for the worse.
At 15 and a rising second grader, Jared Fogle was by now used to this kind if treatment. It wouldn't have been so bad had it been limited to gym class, but young Jared was waddling his way to remedial math when this latest insult came.
Coach Niedzwicki let out a terrifying cackle. "That's how you play dodgeball, kids," he said, picking up his trusty Spalding.
"But coach!" Jared whined, struggling to locate his lenses with his stubby ass hands. By now it was too late -- Larry Franklin had inadvertently stepped on the left frame, and little Suzy Whitacker had slipped the right frame into her pocket (this was, it should be noted, years before she became a thieving whore, but even at this young age, theft still came naturally to her).
"My parents are going to kill me," Jared said to himself as he slowly rose to his hands and knees, and now with one foot on the ground, and now again back to his hands and knees, gasping for air. This sentiment was impossibly optimistic -- his parents had long ago fled the country to escape their tarnished past, which included a poor showing on Family Feud and producing Jared.
His lenses now gone along with what little dignity he had left, Jared left the school premises and wandered aimlessly along the streets. He walked until he could walk no further, coming to a halt a half-mile from the school.
"Well don't you look plum tuckered out!" a man wearing an old Members' Only jacket and tight-fitting leather pants exclaimed. "Come in and take a load off, youngster."
The man took Jared's hand, helping him up and into the nearest building. Missing his glasses, Jared struggled to make out the sign above him as the kind stranger pulled him into what appeared to be an abandoned Rite Aid. North...American...Man...Boy...Love...Association. For Jared Fogle, things were about to take a turn for the worse.
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