Like father, like son. The horse-apple doesn't roll far from the steaming pile. No need to seek a paternity test for my young 'un and his daddy.
My personal beast of burden, my trusty Pony, packed all of my classroom accouterments out to T-Hoe this morning. He rushed back in for a splash of kitchen sink water on his forelock, which has recovered handsomely from that shearing last spring. We hit the trail. Rolled into Newmentia right on time. The Pony loaded up and bore our provisions into the building. From my classroom, he headed for the open range of the gym, to wait for his first class.
It was during this first class, band, but who's keeping track, that he found out what kind of friends he really has.
"Uh. I think your shirt is inside out."
Poor Pony! He does not like to be a spectacle. No seeker of the center of attention is he. I can only imagine his consternation and embarrassment. He could not have been more uncomfortable if he suddenly found his skeleton on the outside. He dashed into the boys' bathroom to remedy his gladrags. To skin that cat of a white shirt exactly like the one Farmer H wore inside-out just before leaving to visit the #1 son the second day of college.
Thank the Gummi Mary, Pony had a buddy and a feisty lass to tip him off before he hit the main hallway like Kramer strolling down the boulevard in the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, wielding his fancy walking stick, rockin' a wide-brimmed hat sporting a feather.
The Pony. One of the sartorially-challenged. At least we know where he gets it.