"Hey Gramps, I'm a chowderhead. Get it?"

"Hey Gramps, I'm a chowderhead. Get it?" "Haha. Jimmy, didya know you can tell the age of a clam by counting the bands on its shell? Why this one here's probly near to 500 years

old," said Gramps, "And look at the size of it!" Jimmy stared, amazed at its ridged surface. It was like counting the bands on his mums fingers to recall how often she'd gotten hi

deous gigantic catfish offer he fingers after a massive Mississippi Noodling Tourney. Jimmy kept staring, which made Gramps super uncomfortable. Gramps took the coldcuts and

stacked them slowly, hoping to disguise his anxiety. Jimmy continued staring at Gramps as the old man piled the meat slices to the ceiling. Roast beef. Bologna. Salami. Ham. Treet.

Head Cheese. Pickled Herring. Salted Cod. and finally, a slice of marbled rye. Gramps hopped down from the counter to admire his meat tower masterpiece. Jimmy heard a loud crack.

Zorro when he reached for the bottle of Death's Door Gin. "That's mine!", he roared. Zorro groaned in pain as he sat down on the sofa. Jimmy and Gramps gave five. It was midnight.

The Curse had been broken and our fortunes were saved by a bunch of meddling kids and their strange dog. We never found the courage to ask them what dark secrets they had but we kn

ew one of them: they themselves were murderers. One county deputy had recovered a bag of weed off of them after a routine traffic stop

and had taken it home and baked it into brownies for the Betty Crocker Bake-Off. Betty and the girls killed off those brownies and boy, were they baked. The deputy won hands down.