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Immediately after standing, Oliver sat once again. It made him look like a buffoon for only an instant, but wasted precious calories in the process --which he could have used toward more productive ends like looking sad, crying, and looking sad whilst crying. Oliver looked hungrily at his empty bowl and, in an act of desperation, bit into it. It tasted just like it looked: dirty, petrified wood stolen from the heart of a dark, depressing forest full of dumb, depressing animals.
Oh how pathetic Oliver is, that he cannot even stand and walk! The other children, seeing Oliver's failure, failed themselves in life. Even the master shook his head and slapped his large forehead in exasperation, embarrassment, anger, and exasperation. The pathetic-ness of it all was overwhelming, and the author had to leave to have a private crying session with some scones or some such.