I love Sprace...Okay, we're experimenting with the Review Jingle--

Slightly: You mean you're experimenting with the Review Jingle.

--so here's the new one. To the tune of (I Hate) Everything About You.)

Slightly: I. Want. You to review! Please. Reviewwwww...This Fic!

"My mother cannot cook," Spot Conlon complained, as the side door opened. He picked, half-heartedly, at the limp, greenish-in-color, supposedly-scrambled eggs, his lip curled in disgust. His best friend came in, carrying a brown paper bag. Racetrack Higgins rolled his eyes. "Isn't that what mothers are supposed to be good at? Cooking?" Spot continued. "'Cause she sucks."

"Ah, yes, but best friend ALWAYS comes to save the day!" Racetrack exclaimed, with a smirk, setting down the brown bag. Spot straightened up and grinned at Race, hopefully.

"What'd you get?" he exclaimed, looking like a child at Christmas. Yeah. His mother sucked at cooking.

"Definitely not Fruit Loops," Race replied with a teasing grin. Spot's eyes widened as Racetrack pulled out the red cereal box, graced with the picture of Toucan Sam on the front.

"Fruit Loops?! SCORE!!!" He pumped his fist in the air, jubilantly, as Racetrack began pouring two bowls. Race laughed and turned around, opening the fridge.

"Houston, we have a problem." Spot froze in the middle of his victory dance, looking fearful. He lowered his arms and his shoulders slumped.

"What?" he finally asked, apprehensively. Racetrack turned to him, a very serious expression on his face, and he spoke slowly and quietly, as if he were informing Spot that it was the Apocolypse.

It was.

"We have. No. MILK!" he said, very dramatically. So much for slowly and quietly. Spot fell off of his stool, to his knees, fake sobs issuing from his mouth.

"Why? Why?! Why do you smite me?!" he cried, shaking his fist for emphasis at the ceiling. "Is it for your own twisted pleasure?" His voice switched to accusatory. "It is, isn't it? You just love to see me suffering, writhing in pain, don't you?"

"Yes. The ceiling fan is very much against you," Racetrack said, his voice only slightly dripping with sarcasm. "You know, you could eat it dry." Spot stared at him as if the very thought of eating his Fruit Loops dry was offensive.

"Dry? Dry? Cereal is not complete without its better half: milk!" he exclaimed, looking at Racetrack as if he had suddenly sprouted for extra heads and a tail. Race rolled his eyes.

"I dunno why you're in band. You're such a drama queen," he said, plucking a fruit loop out of one of the bowls. Spot grinned, cheekily.

"So? If I was in drama, we wouldn't be able to have our little...erm...'sessions' while Mrs. Green isn't looking," Spot said, slyly, reaching up. He grabbed Race by the collar and pulled him down for a kiss. Race hungrily opened his mouth to let in Spot's tongue, but he pulled away. Now was not the time. Spot opened his mouth to protest at the short kiss, but Race popped the Fruit Loop in his mouth.

"I guess they aren't so bad dry," he said, chewing, thoughtfully.

"I thought not."