Bobby groaned as he stared at the brown, slimy, inch-thick hunk of - whatever that was - staring back at him from the blue plastic lunch tray before him; why did the first of the month always have to be Mystery Meat Day? Why not 'Actual Meat Day - As In The Kind That Came From An Animal'? Or 'Choose Your Own Meal Day - Free McDonalds For Everyone'? Or even 'Dried Fruit Day'? He liked dried fruit, so he'd settle for that. But this? This wasn't just disgusting. It was stomach-churning. He wasn't even sure an animal had been involved - willingly or otherwise. Now he knew why his mother had been a vegetarian.
The mashed potatoes and gravy weren't bad, though, and neither was the beer-battered roll; there was something that got him about that - how could they serve beer-battered rolls in a country where you had to be twenty-one years of age to drink beer? He'd never understood that, and he was born in the United States (nevermind the Irish in his blood, nor the Irish in his voice).
The mashed potatoes and gravy weren't bad, though, and neither was the beer-battered roll; there was something that got him about that - how could they serve beer-battered rolls in a country where you had to be twenty-one years of age to drink beer? He'd never understood that, and he was born in the United States (nevermind the Irish in his blood, nor the Irish in his voice).