Frog Applause by Teresa Burritt for December 11, 2022

Would “son of a pun” be ok?

‘He was allergic to pants.’

death bed promises

Write your own obituary then.

The is very nostalgic for me. This one of my Grandfather’s favorite euphemized curses.

‘No, then, just biscuit eater, please.’

I can promise anything, but all promises are void upon expiry.

…it’s an all purpose curse…

…overjoyed…

… son of a biscuit eater …

…mad…

…. son of a biscuit eater …

…surprised …

… son of a biscuit eater …

… see something strange or beautiful…

… son of biscuit eater…

…the Browns beat Cincinnati…

…lame…

… son of a biscuit eater …

…brand new Frog Applause in one hand…

… son of a biscuit eater …

… a sock puppet on the other…

… son of a biscuit eater …

… knowing that Picasso helped steal the Mona Lisa…

… son of a biscuit eater…

…because the worship of old art was ruining the love of new art…

… son of a biscuit eater…

…made me both like and hate Picasso more…

It was my honor to be good friends with a full blood Choctaw Indian (who went ashore on Omaha beach during the Normandy invasion – his grandfather was forcibly removed from Mississippi and traveled on the Trail of Tears to the Oklahoma territory)). For many years we hunted, fished, and ran old dim logging trails in the mountains of southeast Oklahoma looking for turkey, bobcat, fox, feral hog, deer, bear and coyote signs. It was an honor of a lifetime to be a pallbearer when he died in 2017 at the tender age of 96. Where am I going with this you might ask?

Every Saturday morning his wife (Goldena) would fix us eggs, bacon, gravy, biscuits and two sack lunches. I am a biscuit eater. I have no son but if I did he would be the son of a biscuit eater. And proud of it.

“I need to tell you something.” “Hush now.” “No, I’m dying. I need to tell you that I cheated on you. Multiple times. With your best friend, our neighbor, and even your sister.” “I know, my darling, I know. Now just lie quietly and let the poison work.”

I promise but there’s other words of endearment ya know!

An inner course in English language and gutter talk.

We must know the carbon amount in your body. Ya know , the fertilizer we become.

He is so gravy ill he might not make it to dessert.

SOBE?

I had a friend who told the funeral home not to submit an obit notice or publicize his death on their website. Funeral homes, apparently, contact local papers who include your obituary (of a certain length). He wanted none of that. He said that it was no one’s business that he was dead. According to the internet, he’s still alive.

“And honey, aren’t the widow’s weeds a little premature?”

How about “scion of a cookie devourer”? Or “offspring of a scone muncher”?

To which she replies:

“Cross my heart and hope to choke” …!

“I wonder if this is a good time to ask him how much his life insurance policy is worth … and if it’s paid up?”

Okay, now let’s go bass mustard fishing…

Yes, okay in a bit cheeses mouse trap.

Bury me face down, then I can moon biscuits myself when up above.

Nah, we’ll save that for your epitaph.

I hate canned biscuits. I am a homemade buscuit eater.

You ain’t agonna die, my little lovechild! I told you a thousand times if I told you once, https://tinyurl.com/444zdmbsv

But some kids just never learn until it’s too late….