Typing Is Hard

(It’s really not.)

Ordinarily, Ogden Forbes McDougleflaps wouldn’t have taken the second sugar in his coffee, but today was a special day! There were only sixteen slices of cake and he’d gotten the 3rd and 15th, one more than that scoundrel, Nefario Von Babbeesnatch, had gotten. Ogden had despised Nefario from the moment he’d set eyes on him, the way he combed his hair in a spiraling circle around his head, the way his bowtie glimmered greenly in the sun, the way his spats seemed to repel the muddiest of streets and remain glistening and pure. Yes, Ogden thought, it was the spats that did it. Ogden didn’t begrudge him the spats, oh no, it was the purity of the spats that really troubled him. No self-respecting person would let their spats remain so pristine, especially on the muddiest of days. How could a person walk across a muddy field and not get muddy? It smacked of angelic presumption, it did, and Nefario was no angel! Even his moments of charity were suspect, like when he offered Ogden the 14th piece of cake. Ogden had refused, but through some–yes, let’s go there–miracle all others had declined that 15th slice. Mmm mmm, Ogden thought and said, before taking a large bite of the cake. He did. And promptly cracked a tooth on the silver coin hidden inside the cake. “Nefario!” Ogden cried, in fury and in pain.

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