Day CCCXV

It's Coon

     While he was preoccupied, zoned into his fecal dilemma, a little guy sidled up beside him, and said,

     “Ooooo somebody poooed!”

     “Na na, son…it was a coon!”

     “A waa  at?” Another kid added.

     “A raccoon!”

     “Datta be some toid fo a coon mistah Davis!”

     “Yea ahh…det looks like some kid tookit a dump tamee,” another one interjected.

     “Yesuh!” Some else chimed.

     When I came upon the scene, Jack, Mister Davis, the Cub Scout master, was on his knees examining the evidence. He was poking his stick into it, intently staring into at it, as if he were a freaking anthropologist. Suddenly he proclaimed:

      “Yes sir, diz wuz a rotten coon aaa ite.”

     “Jack,” I said, “Dat sho looks like some tyke’s toid, man.”

     “Yea!”

     “Yo!”

     “Yes sir!”

     “Dats what I sed mistah!”

    Jack looked around, he took his stick, brought it close up to his eyes, and looked at it again.

     “No no…I’m telling ya, it was a coon, dar’s lots adem round hea.”

     He said it with an air of authority, as he looked around at all the kids, who just did not believe him. But we were all shaking our heads, saying nay, as we shook them from left to right. Then suddenly, he stared at the stick again, and out of the damned blue, he just freaking stuck his tongue out…and tasted it. He was swishing it inside his mouth as though he were tasting a two hundred year old wine when,

     “Oooooo,” A kid howled.

     “Discustipating,” another screamed.

     “How cud he doodit det,” someone else added.

     “It’s coon!” He screamed, as he made a face, retched, spat, flung the stick into the wood, and walked away.