Papa-yo! So you want to hear this nasty story? In truth, it is a story you own daddy used to beg me to tell him all the time when he was a young boy too. You daddy, and he wicked brothers, and all they badjohn-boyfriends just the same. The whole gang of them sitting around me in the big circle-still wearing they schoolboy-shortpants and they scruffy-up washykongs-all with the big smiles on they faces and they bony knees crossed before them like if I was born yesterday, and I haven't raised up nine of them myself, and they think they can hide anything from me. Because of course, the youngboys can't hardly contemplate nothing more than they own little crab-os poking out between they legs, that they can't keep they hands out they pockets five minutes together without squeezing, and stretching, and playing with it—particularly when I start to give them this story—and in truth, that is a nastiness they never do grow out of no matter how long they live, papa-yo!

Well then, it happened in th…