Stotan! Read Online Free

knows what makes little kids tick, where their pain is and how to help them fly. Given his Catholic background, he’ll probably teach at St. Somebody’s school, which means he’ll never be rich—but he’ll be happy as a pig in mud if he can spend his time making their lives better. Old Nortie has a lot of heart.
    Me, I’d like to be a writer of some kind; maybe a journalist, maybe a storyteller. I should have my choiceof at least a few schools once this swimming season is over, and I think I’ll pick the one with the best English and Journalism departments. I love to write things down, be they fact or fiction. It helps me see things more clearly, and besides I just enjoy it. That’s why I have a semi-regular column in the school newspaper, even though I’m not in the Journalism class, and why I submit articles to the Spokesman Review and the Sunday supplement. I’ve actually had one or two published. I used to go out with a girl whose dad was a bigwig at the Review, and even though the relationship was a marathon screaming match, he liked me and still throws a few bones my way when they need some local public-school filler. I was afraid that would stop when I quit going out with his daughter, but he told me recently it would have stopped if I’d kept going out with his daughter.
    November 13
    Nortie and I were over at my place this afternoon after workout, up in my room listening to some music and pretending to get some study time in, when Jeff came a-pounding on the door. We were lying there on thebeds listening to an old Kingston Trio album (part of the cultural legacy left me by Long John Dupree), helping them out now and then with a little burst of the lyrics and flipping through the pages of our U.S. Government book like we might be learning something. Jeff had a very old Sports Illustrated he’d obviously lifted from the city library rolled up in his hand, and the grin of a man in the catbird seat. “Hi, Anus Breath,” he said. “I have some good news and some bad news.”
    â€œGive me the good news,” I said. “You can keep the bad news to yourself.”
    â€œThe good news,” he said with a grandiose sweeping gesture of the magazine, “is your hero now knows what a Stotan is,” and he pointed to the magazine. He shook his head and looked to the heavens. “God, redheads are bright. Do you know the average SAT score for redheads as opposed to the rest of mankind?”
    The question passed over Nortie as he laid his book aside and sat up. “So what’s the bad news?” he asked. “Give us the bad news.”
    â€œThe bad news is,” Jeff said, his grin widening considerably, “I found out what a Stotan is.” He shook his head. “It isn’t pretty.”
    Nortie groaned and sat back against the wall. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “What is it?”
    Jeff said, “You don’t want to know. I will tell you this much. The term was coined somewhere after the middle of this very century in Australia. Further knowledge can be obtained by interested parties through clandestine arrangements for sexual favors with family members—preferably mothers and sisters.” He did an exaggerated about-face and high-stepped out of the room.
    Nortie was up in an instant, following him out, yelling, “Wait, Jeff! You can sleep with my sister.” It’s a good thing my parents weren’t home.
    Jeff has an abscessed front tooth with a temporary hole drilled in the back for drainage, and the substance that comes out would be more appropriate draining into the alley behind Lion’s apartment than into someone’s mouth—even Jeff’s. It drains very slowly—it’s been like that for months, with no end in sight according to his dentist—so he doesn’t have the taste all the time, but when he wants to he can suck it out with his tongue, blow it on you and flatten