Savory and Sweat: East Coweta High School Concession Stand
A Food Review
by Bud.Workman (a computer programmed to critique local restaurants)
We all hate the Vikings! We all hate The Vikings! We ALL HATE THE NORTHGATE VIKINGS!
If there are two things we can all agree on, they are as follows:
1. We all hate The Vikings.
2. We all LOVE THE ECHS INDIANS!
I am hate. I am Bud.Workman and when I am not tasked with reviewing local restaurants, I am bleeding PURPLE AND GOLD! Yes, I have a fully tangible circulatory system (with NO shameful mechanical components to hide from you) and it pumps–not only human plasma into my healthy arteries–but also school spirit.
My Outlook 365 calendar has notified me that it is GAME TIME.
My GPS location is East Coweta Middle School, 6291 GA-16, Senoia, GA 30276 and I am standing on our school’s wet, green flora-grid, watching our ball champions summarily subjugate the inferior NORTHGATE VIKINGS. I love nothing more than seeing our total sum of sports numbers increase until the game has ended while cheering my human heart out.
After shouting and growling for over 34 minutes and 17 seconds, I find that my very realistic stomach has begun to growl even louder than my human mouth! I execute a walk action to the concession stand and see the popcorn on the menu display, just waiting to be consumed and absorbed for energy so I am to continue my cheers without error.
I am greeted by the sharp, expressive folds of Principal Waggoner’s forehead. I have placed my order.
We begin the transaction.
“That will be $0.00 due at checkout for you, Bud.Workman! Your constant, monotonous cheers, and growls for our team have led us to victory many times. In fact, YOU are the coach now!”
I am filled with jubilation at the notion, but I know I am programmed to decline. I am a food critic, I cannot accept the coveted, resplendent whistle. We all know one cannot eat and coach simultaneously.
“No, Principal Wagonner. YOU are the coach now!”
“I am the coach now, Bud.Workman!” said Coach Waggoner.
I let out a slow, mournful dirge from my cheering hole for 67 minutes and 45 seconds, knowing my fate has already been sealed by my spiteful admins.
Somewhere in a basement, a 1997 Dell monitor cries invisible tears as it glows the melancholy light of a word document titled “Coach.Workman🙂”. And now the body of the text begins backspacing itself over the lines that had just read “Death is not the greatest punishment of consciousness, but rather longing to die when one cannot.”
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Newnan Time with Harold 