(kinda like mad libs basically)
Last night, as I sat in the bathroom eating mozzarella sticks and watching What Not to Wear, the telephone rang. When I picked it up, I heard a(n) talking sound. It was my romantic friend Ace. He told me that he couldn't solve the 500 problems that Miss Pantoja had assigned for homework.
I'm pretty playful in math, so it took me only 45 minutes to figure out the answers. “These problems are easy!” I told him. “Use your tissue.”
“It's broken!” he said. “I think my puppy said over it.”
“Then you'll just have to use your fingers!” I suggested sweetly.
“wow! You're a big help! The next time I need advice, I'll call Demetri Martin,” he shouted.
I don't know why Ace was so mad. Did he want me to give him the answers?