Every since Ika remember I wanna be na weight gesser bidness.
Them
guys is the coolest guys I ever know. They c'mupin my town days
and
weeks, I can remember when ah'd wait and wait in the sweat under
momma's shadow.
Them rondabout a wensdey in JEW-lie in com the cirkis.
My stars, I was so tickled I nearly dropped my salad fork on my
brown
John Thompsons. Mother certainly would have been put out by
that, I
can tell you.
Royt! So, oy'd go to da coikus, royt? And knohwin me, as yew
dew, Oy'd
run royt to da woyt gessah. Moy, Oy loved 'im.
He coulda guessed the weight of a sucklin pig with three turkey
basters in each eye and ALREADY on the spit, I betcha. People'd
come
up and say, "Guess ma weight, betcha can't." And he'd smile
reeeeaal
wide and laugh one a dem belly laughs like wasisname? you know,
and
say "Betcha-a can, little dung beetle."
And that'd get'em riled, no foolin!
Ah'd sit back on mah barrel of swine mixins and just watch,
trans-fixid.
The hairy back set from out past Wibley's Road, they'd get the
riledest and start shoutin bout callin kids and wimin dung
beetles and
how that ain't right and such rot, and the man'd just laugh that
poopface laugh he had and just bounce and shake. And there's me,
tangled up'n blue.
After a bit a shoutin and a round a "boy I outta's" and
"didnchor
mamma ever tell you's" the weight gessin'd start in earnest.
That's when I'd usually leave, cuz that part was boring.
---The preceding story was offensive and stupid and should not
have
been read by hillbillies or Palestinians---
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