• “How do you open these?!” Ozzy asked getting frustrated. In his hands was a role of cinnamon roles. He had tried twisting it, biting it, smacking it ageist his hand, nothing.
    Wayne Dolê, a black skinned boy wearing a black t-shirt over a red long sleeve shirt, came into the cafeteria. Wayne looked at Ozzy, in his purple getup and purple cat ears, and asked, ’’What are you doing?’’
    ‘’I’m trying to get some cinnamon buns but I can’t.’’ Ozzy said. ’’Did they, like, child proof these things of something?’’
    ‘’No Ozzy.’’ Wayne said shaking his head at his naïve friend. ’’You hit it on the side of the table.’’
    ‘’O.K.’’ Ozzy said. He was about to hit the side of the table with it when he said, ’’I, Ozzy Delma, now crimson this table in the name of food.’’ He smacked it against the table and looked at it. Than smacked it again;
    ‘’Did it ever accord to you to read the instructs?’’ Wayne asked.
    Ozzy, not listening, kept on hitting the side of the table.
    ‘’Give it here.’’ Wayne said holding his hand out.
    Ozzy gave it to him and watched as Wayne unwrapped part of the paper and smacked it against the table. He handed it back to his friend and said, ’’You just have to have the right touch.’’
    Ozzy unwrapped the rest of it and started to eat them.
    ‘’Dude!’’ Wayne exclaimed. ‘’Do you not know how to cook them?!’’
    ‘’Ya I do.’’ Ozzy said. ‘’I just don’t.’’
    Wayne walked out of the cafeteria shaking his head.