Diary of Tadpole the Dirtbag
Rob Cook

DIARY OF A DIRTBAG

On my way to American Folklore 236
a co-ed passing by looked directly and
determinedly into my face and voiced
her unfavorable opinion of me.

She was middle-tier at best: short, crooked
blonde hair, brown eyes like
pennies in a mud puddle, sweatshirt
covering breasts the size of Rolaids.

But I am ugly: possibly the only
long-haired man on campus, and
have weeds growing under my eyes.

I wondered where this girl picked up
such enormous ego. Looking over her
delicate shoulder she called out dirtbag,
then a well-articulated Ugh!
to make sure I heard.
This is what happens when you leave the house
without proper grooming, I noted silently
and continued down the walkway with my

oversized verdant overcoat, loose
shoelaces, pulled out my comb
like a switchblade, and began raking
my hair with the plastic teeth.