Yickity Yack©
"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.