Advance #8: This Kid

Don't get me wrong, Chachi.

As I've clearly articulated to the thousands  nine of you whose corrosive dorsal acne, crippling Oppositional Defiant Disorder and ghoulish clubfoots have landed them in my seductive house of assignation--wee ones aren't very funny.

In fact, they're about as jocose as contracting a galloping case of Leprosy on a first date with that ethereal beauty you waited five months and 13 days to finally mount like an epileptic quill-pig. (It's just a simile. Go home.)

But Denny Dance will give credit where credit's due if one of these sad midgets does something to crease my cheeks with mirth. Like this.

And the ballsy little half-dult referred to in the detention ticket to the left hit the mark with murderous aplomb. I'm standing and clapping.  First slowly.  Then faster once everyone else rises and joins me, nodding to each other affirmatively.

Homeboy can run in my clique every other Thursday as long as he brings brew money, some industrial grade Whip-its and his Mom's cell number.

With Many Thanks,
Denny DelVecchio