-It’s…time…to…go! You…have…band…class…in…five…mi-minutes!- grunted the mother and mumbled curse words under her breath while she strained her body, pulling the young, Tasmanian devil onto her lap.
-You’re a fire-truck! I hate you! I don’t like you anymore! - he winced, all the while running to the treacherous ball pit and throwing a raspberry at his mother’s face.
-Ugh…Timmy! You better get your behind here NOW! - she shrieked and threw herself, Olympic-style, into the ball pit.
Nothing of the “restaurant” burst as invited, nor at the very least consumable. Rumors spread about inside mafia jobs involving Jimmy Hoffa and brujo cults near 10:00 P.M. at night. Some have claimed to hear voyeuristic sounds near the men’s bathroom. The pizza wasn’t even that genuinely baked, with an ages-old pizza connoisseur (is that how they call it these days?) declaring, in his words, that “…a dog-fried feces on a batter of lard has a better taste than this piece of…crud!” Even the neighbors hated them, and lobbied the public health department asking for a major crackdown on the place’s sanitary conditions. To date, there have been numerous cases of pediatric whiplash and class action lawsuits coming from that pizza joint.
A man entered, throwing away a half-blown cigar and fixing his Virgen María nickel chain that combed his well-endowed chest hair. He glanced, entered in, flirted at the mothers and entered through a starred door. A few minutes sizzled and fizzled while the kids grew delighted and the mothers exasperated at the prices and the safety (a local PTA condemned the place after finding jeringuillas strewn on a Mario Kart). Five minutes elapsed, and the two-bit theatrics began to roll.
-Yes! -the kids responded with enthusiasm and unshaken sympathy.
-All righty! Then let’s begin with… Ronnie… and the Magnificos! -continued with all the cheap, bombastic fanfare of an already cheap, dilapidated pizza harem. Yay! We love Ronnie! -they whipped, hooted, and cheered, congregating to the front of the decrepit, makeshift stage.
Do those kids know their Cretaceous idol was a furry brute with the smell of cheap cognac and Fidel’s cigars? Never man shall understand what possessed him to take such a vexing job with a ludicrous face. Anyways, best to let the kids be reluctant while they see Ancestor Chicken dance.