1. If the YOB stupid bastards knew they could get high off of the parotid gland secretions they wouldn’t bash the toads…ah, to Hell with it, this kind of scum is impenetrable! Needless to say I have my own definiton of “vermin.” Not to mention “—holes.” Moving right along though, when my dad had my mother lodged in a house on stilts somewhere in Queensland while he was riding uphill and down dale, training for the territorial police in New Guinea in 1948, she couldn’t abide the toads in the unmown grass or the iguanodon lizards sunning in the morning on the porch. She said it was like Mississippi, our worst state (and repeated it when our sister Cris got married and actually went to live there!), and when an old black lady who did the washing said about the brown snakes likely /under/ the house, that did it. Mom flew back to the States in a Constellation with me in her tum and Pop came after, repentant like. He settled down as a respectable CPA accountant for the State of Minnesota, but his heart wasn’t in it. One of his nicknames for me as a baby was — you guessed it! — “Toad,” which — you guessed it! — pissed off my mother no end.

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