“No. That would be insane.” This guy was as thick as dew on Dixie. Camping with ten kids, can you imagine? “Our older two stayed home. We're camping with only eight of our children.”
“That would explain it.” He went back to writing on his tablet.
“Explain what?”
“That strand of the Easter basket grass,” he answered.
“What strand of Easter basket grass?” One of my eyes began to twitch.
“That strand of Easter basket grass I removed from your per-i-ne-um.”
“You found Easter basket grass on my per-i-popo?” My other eye twitched.
“Yes, your 'popo'. I removed it and disposed of it.” He wrote some more on his tablet.
Oh, no, please God, no, not that. Not Easter basket grass-ass!
I had been trying to vacuum that stuff up since March and here it was “knee-hi-by-July” or should I say “bee-hi-nd-by-July”.
“So, as I was saying, doctor, the coons stole our Hostess outlet, day-old bread and here we were standing in the middle of bloody woop-woop and I needed to void.” I winked and laughed. He didn't. I was beginning to feel like the world's only living brain donor.
“Anyway, I voided behind a tree and grabbed a bunch of leaves to use as toilet paper...” It hit me. “St. Hyginus! It must have been those leaves. They were poison IVY!”
“Mrs. Flanigan, what would raccoons want with day-old bread?” he asked very condescendingly.
This guy had done bit the fat dog in the ass, with me. “Ten kids”, he was thinkin', “her family never crossed the creek.” Well, I'd be showin' him what a mother of ten knows. I'd spout off some Latin.
“‘Semper ubi sub ubi!’” I quoted our eight year old, son Jack who was studying Latin in school. I would demonstrate that I could converse in practical Latin AND be philosophical too. “That's life, live it for God.”
“Do, and you'll not be having this problem again.” He pointed his pen at me.
“Are you saying God is punishing me?” I asked incredulously. “Are you saying I don't ‘ubi sub ubi?’...‘live my life for God’?”
