I grew up hearing my dad’s colorful expressions. I realized as I got older that he’d modified them to make them kid friendly. He tried to spare our tender ears – at least, until he didn’t.
Word count: 101
Up a Creek
“You’re gonna be up Shit Creek without a paddle, my friend.” Dad slammed the phone down and took a handful of seed, throwing it in the wind. “If that rat-bastard thinks he can sell me a bagful of crap and get away with it, why I…”
Looking up, he noticed me standing there, mouth agape. “Sorry, son. You know, I never have shown you where Schitt Creek is, have I? We’ll plan that trip real soon.”
And with a sheepish smile on his face, he turned on his heel, the lousy bag of seed on his shoulder, heading purposefully to town.
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© Erin Leary