“Hey Grandma, this piece of cake tastes awful, and it smells like mothballs.”
I said this with a horrible look on my face, then spit the cake out on my paper plate.
She always called me by my brothers names before she got to mine.
“Don’t eat it! Give it to Butchie.”
I passed it down to her rotund dog Butchie. He ate it in three seconds, then went in on the plush carpet and got violently ill.
“Oh, look what my Butchie did!” She was straining and sweating as she wiped it up,
and she may have broken wind, because when I entered the room, the smell was horrendous.
I left her house without eating anything.
My appetite had vanished, and I was glad I didn’t eat that cake.