Dirty Fag or Dirty Fog 2

 

“Seamus said, ‘Dirty fag’,” states his mother, Josephina.

The mum-of-four is telling her father, Woodie Mack, the moment he arrives next morning at her six-bedroom residence sitting stoutly on its own three-acres of grounds: an orchard, and garages, but mostly lawns.

“Are you back on the cigarettes?” asks Josephina.

“Dirty fog, dirty fog,” immediately answers Woodie Mack, as he reaches for the keys from his son-in-law Peter’s super duper tractor mower that cost him a wee fortune so he can trim his acres of lawns each weekend, but it lies idle on weekdays. “You got it wrong. Dirty fog.”

“Dirty fag Seamus said.”

‘“Dirty fog,’ he said. You didn’t listen to him…”

“I listen to my children!” declares Josephina. “Seamus said, ‘Dirty fag’. Are you’re smoking again?”

“No, no, you got it wrong….”

“Dad, don’t tell me lies.”

“Seamus said ‘Dirty fog’,” pleads Woodie Mack. “Will you listen to the child? If you do you’ll hear fog.”

“Fog. Fag. What’s the fucking difference? Are you back on the cigarettes?”

“The difference is: fog. I had him by the window as it got all murky and the day darkened with the mists and I shouted, ‘Dirty fog’, and he shouted, ‘Dirty fog,’ and we both shouted, ‘Dirty fog…”

“I warn you, Dad, if you go back on the cigarettes you’re not getting Peter’s tractor. Say goodbye to the euros you make cutting lawns. Gone if you’re smoking again.”

“It’s fog, fog, listen to the child, will you?”

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