“Hey, you!” screamed a small child with a snotty nose and a whole posse of kids on Big Wheelz trikes. “Prehistoric hairy butts!”
“Don’t talk about my family that way,” said Grampa.
“Not you!” screamed the tyke. “I’m talkin’ to the moronic mammoths and the birdbrained flying lizards. Pick on someone your own size!”
Dem was fightin’ words. Esther and Chavez struck their Drunken Mammoth Monkey stance.
But two of the biker kids snuck in from behind and tripped the beasts with their Big Wheelin’ Bamboo Maneuver.
The pterodactyl chickens dive-bombed in a screaming eagle formation.
But the head biker spun out on his trike and sent a wave of pebbles and dirt into their eyes, which really irritated their contact lenses.
Grampa, Gramma, and Jubal hitched rides with the bikers, while I rode Merle kittyback–style.
“Put the pedal to the plastic!” yelled Grampa. “They’re gaining on us!”
“The whole town’s gone prehistoric,” said the head biker. “All the pets have turned on us! My own canary tried to eat my left pinky toe just this morning.”
“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but you’ve got a glob of mucus hanging from your nose.”
“That’s how we roll, daddy-o!” said a biker with glasses. “We’re known as the Snot-Nosed Punks. We wear it like a badge of honor. It’s way cool.”
“Hey, look!” said Grampa, pointing at his nose. “I’m cool, too.”
