A boy sitting on a rock getting his feet wet in water Admittedly, when I heard dad's whistle I began to cuss. Cussing was an art form to us boys and I could hold my own with any of em'. Each of us had been homeschooled by some of the best. Our dads were cussing scholars. They could weave together a seamless run-on sentence placing correct obscenities in all the appropriate places.* After belting out my short...
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