— Calvin Coolidge
30th U.S. President (1872-1933)
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It was a mercilessly blazing summer. To prove just how hot it was, a member of the neighborhood gang of 5-year-old boys — Georgy — robbed his mom’s fridge of an egg and gently carried the tiny white oval outside to crack open and fry upon the blistering sidewalk.
Another of the miniature gangsters — Joey — stopped him in his tracks because Joey had countered Georgy’s previous claim that it was “a hunnerd’n twinny” degrees outside.
“It’s hot,” Joey charged with sticky forefinger in Georgy’s chest. “But it ain’t no hunnderd’n twinny. I’m sweat’n like a sunk-head mule, and so are you, but it ain’t no hunnderd’n twinny.”
Georgy back-stepped, exposing a narrow gap of thick, steamy air between his dampening t-shirt and his rival’s smudgy finger.
“You don’t know that,” Georgy fired back. “It’s hotter’n blue blazes out here. You’re just ‘fraid for me to crack open this egg because you know it’ll fry on that ceeement, and you’ll be wrong ... right here in front of all the guys. You know it will, Joey. You’re afraid to even talk about it.”
“Ain’t afraid,” Joey roared. “I just know what I know ... ‘n talkin’ about it won’t change nothin’.”
“Then let’s put it to a vote,” Georgy said. “I seen how they do it on TV. They call it a deeebate.”
“A whut?” Joey asked.
“A deeebate,” Georgy repeated. “It’s when two people can’t agree on sumthin’ so they talk about it in front of other people. And then the other people decide for theirselves.”
“So what do we deeebate?” Joey quizzed.
“About who’s right’n who’s wrong,” Georgy answered. “Then the guys here vote. And whoever gets the most votes ... wins and that means they’re right.”
“Right about whut?” Joey asked.
“About whatever it is that we’re deeebatin’,” Georgy clarified.
“OK ... so how do we start?”
“All you guys sit down on the grass,” Georgy ordered. “Me an’ Joey’ll stand over here and deeebate in front of you. You have to ask us questions. We answer’em and whoever sounds smarter wins the deebate. Ask anything.”
The other tiny gangsters took their seats, crossed their legs and waited — Billy Ray, Chucky, Denny, Ziggy, Jeffrey, Theo, Fonzy, Teddy, Jim Bob, Joe Bob and John Bob, the latter three of whom were triplets. All were members of the self-proclaimed “He-Man-Woman-Haters-Club,” an organization borrowed from the most recent black-and white rerun of The Little Rascals. Including Georgy and Joey, they were 13, all from the same block.
The 11 squatters looked around, uncertain what to ask. Finally, Ziggy chimed, “Who’s got the most marbles?”
“Me,” Joey declared. “I got half’a shoebox full.”
“That don’t matter,” Georgy countered. “Mine are bigger.”
“Ain’t dunnit!” Joey spewed.
“I gotta question,” Fonzy said. “Who’s stronger?”
“Me!” Joey was first on the draw again.
“Ain’t!” Georgy said. “I wrastled you to the ground just the other day playin’ football.”
“I slipped,” Joey fired back.
“Who’s smarter?” Theo wanted to know.
“Me!” Georgy said, this time being first off the starting line.
“I know all my letters and can read all by myself,” Joey said. “Georgy can’t even print his name.”
“Who’s got the ugliest sister?” Joe Bob sought.
“Him!” Georgy said. “You ever seen her ... buck-toothed like a gopher.”
“Hey, that ain’t nice!” Joey retorted. “You take it back!”
“Yore sister’s so ugly she makes the roosters crow!” Georgy laughed.
“Ain’t neither!” came the retort. “Why, yore sister’s ugly ‘nough to give a frog warts.”
“Ain’t so!”
“Is so!”
The Great Debate was deteriorating.
“Who still wets the bed?” Billy Ray asked.
“Him!” both Georgy and Joey echoed, fingers pointing in opposite directions.
Joey’s candy bar-stained finger brushed against Georgy’s free hand, dislodging the egg taken from his mother’s refrigerator ... the one to be used to scientifically confirm the day’s heat. Both debaters lurched for the egg in mid-air, but managed only to send it higher into its ascent. They watched helplessly as the agrarian projectile plummeted to the sizzling sidewalk below. A muffled cracking pierced the air, a gentle thud and the egg lay still. No runs. No drips.
“Huh?” the gang gasped in unison.
“Why didn’t it break?” Joe Bob asked.
“It did break,” Georgy answered, stooping to pick up the lifeless shape. “It’s hard-boiled.” Georgy’s gaze found his opponent’s shocked stare and a grin creased his grimy face.
“See Joey,” Georgy declared. “I TOLD you it was hot out here!”
The Great Debate had ended.
