You know, I remember it like it was only yesterday. Christmas morning. Sitting there in my Grandfather’s kitchen. My elbows on the window sill and my little head rested upon my folded hands. Glaring out the window at the freshly fallen snow.
Pop-pop put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me with a kind glance. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Magically he just reached behind my ear only to reveal none other than a Werther’s Original.
My face lit up with joy and wasting no time I quickly unwrapped the classic caramel candy, made with fresh cream and real butter, and tossed it into my mouth.
Sitting there basking in the glory of this confectionery wonder, I’ll never forget the words my Grandfather spoke to me. With a gentle smile he said, “I just took a dump in ma pants and I want you should get over here and give us a hand.”
From that moment on any visit to Pappy’s house would hastily lead to some kind of a fucked up Pavlovian response. Werther’s and “shit-job” became nearly synonymous.
Just suckin on a Werther’s…Suckin on a Werther’s and administering a Fleet Enema to ma poppy.
Or
Just enjoying that original hard-candy sucker. Enjoying it as I wax a fresh coat of Ben Gay onto the old man’s chapped ass.
Or
Just ever so slightly savoring that little morsel of deliciousness. Savoring it as I power plunge a freshly plugged toilet or clean piss out of grout or brush his teeth, brush them and then glue them back into his mouth. Take your pick. Ya ever clean piss out of grout though?
Come to think of it, I can’t really remember the last time I had Werther’s.
I hate that fucking candy.
