Must not a got.

Yesterday, hubby bubby said in passing, “Must not a got …” I said, “Wait! Wait, right here, I need to WRITE that down, lest I forget what you didn’t get and how it is you said what you don’t got.”

Given I still have some snap left in my garters and I’m a bit of a straight shooter, I started to laugh. Snicker Doodles (birth name Nick) GOT it and he started to laugh too. That’s when the moment got up to a pretty good pitch—steeper than a cow’s face actually. I snorted and crossed my legs. (That means I think somethin’s REALLY funny and I’m in the moment HAPPY.)

Such is life is rural America. The deeper into its past you go, the sweeter it gets.

After we quit lovin’ on his folksy, regional upbringing, hubby bubby got serious, wiped the laughter from his eyes, and said,

“Spread that on the grass to make it greener—know what I mean?”

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