Note: These stories are shown as written many years ago (1974) by yours truly as an eighth-grader in junior high school. They will remain unedited.
I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t think David Cassidy and Donny Osmond are big stars. My opinion, they ain’t nothin but a bunch of reds. Makes me madder than anything that all the pretty girls go after these buncha grits and those pretty girls do nothin but kiss em. Why don’t they go out with guys like us, man? We’re cool. Lemme tell ya somethin. I saw in the paper that one of those grits was coming to town. So I thought that maybe I would go Friday night and see if I could get a date with one of those girls after the show. That is if all the pretty girls didn’t flock all over Bobby Sherman. It was a real bore until after when I saw so many cuties down there. I knew I could at least pick one out. I ran down some steps and when I got down there every single cutie had fainted. Wouldn’t you know I ended up with one of those ugly ones. You know, crazy hair, pigtailed, a prickly face I couldn’t stand. We went to a bar downtown and I asked if she wanted a beer. She said, “No. I don’t drink beer.” Oh boy. She fell asleep in the bar. I got drunk and took her home. Almost had a wreck. Her father answered the door and thanked me for bringing her home. I said, “No trouble.” Although it really was. Then he kicked me out for being a drunkard. Oh boy, that’s what grit singers can get you into.
What next?
The End
