Who the Squatgobber Dingleberrynickens Are You

Sheila’s turn tonight. She had reserved the family brain a week ago. Her brother Slade thought it was his turn. Hid the keys to it. Furious, she pranced up and down on his head and neck, screaming. Mom and Dad got into the fray. Dad on her side, Mom all about Slade. The whole family was scrapping and cussing now; Tom on porch. Her date, Tom was a good boy, from a family with a dendrite highway. He came by to see what was taking her, for she was supposed to pick him up. She came to the door, slammed it open, and slapped him hard in the cheek. He spun around, and she kicked him without class, in the petootie. He landed in the middle of the driveway, saddened, and confused. Stay up! You Willydicknoodlepucker! She yelled from the porch. Who was that? Grandpa McWin asked from an oak tree branch. Who the squatgobber dingleberrynickens are you? Sheila yelled at Tom. Tom gathered up his keys and ran toward his mom’s house. Sheila called him ten minutes later to ask where the hell he was. Reminder to not date girls whose family had to share limited dendrites. She left him a voice mail. “It is my turn to have the family brain. I finally got the keys away from my brother. I will pick you up in ten.” Was that ten hours? Ten minutes? Ten years? He was furious now. Mom, he asked, “Whose turn is it to have the comprehension tonight?”