Imondi's Late for Class

Some say he was looking for his girlfriend at the local pet store, listening to the harmonious chirping of the magnificently colored parrots in order to try to locate her, somehow trapped and encaged within the body of a bird. Other say he was down at the Bakery, using his deft fingers to carefully roll and shape the heavy dough to make his own exquisite creation of the infamous Pineapple Pizza a la mode. But I know the real reason. I know why Immondi was late to his undeniably remarkable 6th period Creative Writing class, and why my peers and I were deprived of his presence for a never-ending time span of 15 whole minutes.

You see, it started that morning when he was having breakfast.
“Ma, where’s the cheerios?! I need my cheerios Ma!”
“Michael, I told you for the billionth time, that damn englishman stole it!”
Evidently, Mr Imondi is quite passionate about his cheerios. So passionate that if he was to be deprived of a bowl of these honey-nut creations from G-d, he'd go ballistic and lose his marbles. It was basically his miracle drug.

Nevertheless, with an empty tank bereft of cheerios and a sad puppy face cuter than any other dog on the planet, Mr. Imondi started his routinely morning walk to school. On any other day he'd merely run to the Walmart down the block, leaving the cereal isle cheeriosless in a matter of minutes. Not this time though- just recently, Walmart had been bought out by Paris Hilton and had been turned to a store that exclusively only serves 'hot' walls. Many argue that this is an idiotic attempt by her to cover up the fact that she thought Walmart was a place where they sell nothing but walls for constructing houses and office buildings, while others say that it is an attempt by her to make society more functional and a lot less complicated. Nevertheless, Mr. Imondi set out on his daily morning down Jericho Turnpike to Herricks High School with a empty stomach craving some scrumptious cereal on the side of a refreshing glass of cold, fresh milk.

The day started out normally like any other day would, with students racing down the high school's infamous 100 meter hallways against the grumpy morning bell and Mr. Cooper divinely splitting the vast sea of freshman blocking the doorway to his the math office. Sad and depressed, Mr. Imondi swaggered past the front office into the English wing, gingerly making a swift right turn into the dark classroom he had claimed as his during his first years at the high school. He sat down and slouched into the dark blue beanie bag his girlfriend bought him for Christmas last year, closing his eyes and quietly mourning for the sacred breakfast he was so dearly deprived of today.