| "Yickity
Yack" bellowed Fusel as he aggressively tip-toed sideways back to Herlin's
discount tobacco wagon. Now Herlin was a quiet chap whom only spoke when
called upon. Herlin never took the time to comb his hair but kept his sideburns
very neat. Fusel never had time to speak a word as Herlin would always go
straight to his work when he spied the unpredictable woodsprite prance into
his tobacco hut. With one sweep of his flannel-covered arm, he would send
4-5 boxes of swisher shweets and however many slim-jims would seek to accompany
the ride into the old grocery bag. The baffled ex-Roto-Rooter named Herlin
never knew for sure whether this obsessed parasite was created or born,
but knew Fusel's Grandpa would always pick up the tab. Fusel would wobble
and spin on down the street with a million dollar smile and a bag full of
goodies calling names and spitting on anyone who crossed his crooked pathway.
Now Fusel's Grandpa was a belligerent old fart whom expected Fusel to pay
the piper or hit the road. Hince Hance hippity hop skipped Fusel through
the bedazzled township, knowing that today was the day to wisk the dog and
wellish the window pane. The bannister to the fruit celler needed an Irish
rubbing compound polish as well. Skip the chance for Fusel to show up, Grandpa
made a twisty turvey dive for the broom closet where his naval swabbing
boots were stored and with a chaotic groan, slipped the leather death mats
over his hairy toes. As the sun began to hide behind Pop Tipster's hickory
mincemeat mill, Grandpa set out into the sunset with a yellow gunny sack
and a hot dog stick, searching for the irresponsible bludge whom once again
avoided his daily duties. Grandpa spied this little wigwart playing pockey
pool in the meadow, with his swisher shweets and slim jims crammed in every
opening in his crooked little body. Grandpa stumbled toward Fusel, pierced
him with the hot dog stick through the groin, and crammed him into the gunny
sack in which he toted. He gave the sack a giant whirl into the legendary
pool of quicksand nearby. As Fusel sank into his new muddy world, Grandpa
began clogging as he gazed upon the swishers and slim jims lying next to
the old stump. "Hang hew!" cried Grandpa as he stuck his hot dog
stick in the mud, belched, and skipped home. |
