‘“You’ll never prove a thing that I did with my ding-a-ling,” shouts the Dean who is frightfully mean
Ezra, Nails, Harry, Justy. Four boys who had worked hard to excavate names quite so unusual. Yet these deltoid deities are America’s most sovereignly feared relay team. Did you ever look at them? Of course you didn’t, because they are mere creations that must turn to dust. It’s just unfortunate they do so before page three. While they do pant, I do rant. If I feel them they must exist, for their electrons can only exist because of my electrons. If you get my drift, time-shift, feeling miffed.
Here we are in the splendiferous stockbroker suburbs of Boston, an alliteration never previously used because it is so try-hard, die-hard. These boys feel all powerful, twitch, twitch twitching as Coach Rims glib jib annoys their senses with his muttering mumbo-jumbo before they transmute compute into hellion gazelles. They step on the gas and flatten the grass.
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