Codlings and Pinochle

This one scout master, a real fat shit with white mint shit in the corners of his mouth, not humbug mints, but those white pocket-mints that old people chew on like candy, I didn’t care much for, not in the least, really. When some of the other scouts, the ones with way more badges sewed on they’re sashes used to whack me in the ass with they’re moccasins he’d just keep chewing and chewing like the fat bastard he was, fat shitty bastard. I had all these welts on my backside, moccasin-shaped.

Grandmamma had this theory about getting old, as long as you don’t think you’re old you isn’t, it’s the codlings what’re fucked from the get go. On account of the fact I don’t have a bank account I’m considered little, littler than my grandmamma what has two, one for groceries and the other for pinochle. Sometimes she dips into the grocery one when she needs money for pinochle. Thing is she plays pinochle more than she does the grocery shopping, so having two different bank accounts seems sort of stupid. She might as well just have one and pretend she’s buying groceries when she’s really playing pinochle. She’s probably way littler than she thinks, but can’t say it out loud in case my granddad hears and makes her feel silly and like a liar. Our scout master was a big liar and a bastard so I can stop talking about him, for now at least.