The last time I had a fleeting opportunity to poop with the door closed and/or blog, I regaled you with a romantic tale of two fictional, Newfoundland lovebirds, Duffy (our studly protagonist) and Jess (his chip-toothed dream girl).

Well guess what? By popular demand (someone at work mentioned it once, I think), I invite you back to the seaside dreamscape of our story’s budding romance. I give you: “Pop’s Weiner”.

Me n Jess been goin’ steady now goin’ on t’ree weeks. B’ys is right jealous too, der not gettin neider bitta skin off dere missuses. Linette got Gussy right drove now she’s on da keto diet so she eats nudding but kippers n’ Kraft single slices n’ diet Big 8. Gussy’s near starved ta deat’. Darr’l’s got a new missus now he met off Timber – das a hook-up app fer hard up fellers like Darr’l who spends all der time in da woods settin snares or goin on quad or smokin j’ints (usually all t’ree). Anyway, lo ‘n behold Darr’l meets Barb who’s all da time on trike or drinkin Coors Light or burnin down half da Jesus field behind Bob’s store tryin da light a fire (fuckin cooked, b’y). B’ys hit it right off but Barb wants ta wait till marriage so dere only doin over da clothes stuff so poor ol Darr’l’s not fit da look at.

Jess is wicked, b’y. She cooks da deadliest cabbage rolls an’ she looks just like da dragon missus off Game a T’rones when she puts er face on and does er ‘air wit dat fuckin blue shampoo (got me Jesus bat’room wrecked). But wit bigger tits. And she got da raunchy ol sense a humour, had da b’ys at Chase da h’Ace in near stitches. B’ys were dyin.

She met mudder n fadder n passed da test, I s’pose. Mudder showed her pics of me arse in all da ol baby albums, an fadder got loaded off White Russians and wandered off to Bob’s shed, middle of a game crib (state, b’y). And Jess brought a trifle dat mudder said was deadlier den aunt Linda’s, which is sayin somethin. So da folks likes er.

But danight we was goin to nan n pop’s fer a rum n coke. Dis’ll be da true test, I t’ought. Poor ol pop’s deaf as a haddock. And nan don’t tink no one’s good enough fer er little b’y, God love er.

We pulls up behind pop’s pickup an I can already hear Jim Reeves blarin from da kitchen window. Da only ting nan loves more den Players Light n’ salt meat hash wit mustard pickles, is Jim fuckin Reeves.

We stamps out our smokes and starts up da front bridge when we hears nan let out da Jesus big scream.

We batters da Jesus in da screen door and sees Pop keeled right over, right blue in da face. E’s face was right blowed up just like da harbour tom cod.

“Pop’s chokin on e’s weiner! Pop’s chokin on e’s weiner!” Nan screams. She sot down on da floor right white in da face and started on wit “oh jesus in da garden, jesus in da garden”. I freaked right out and started feelin around fer me phone; I was dat spooked me Jesus big t’umbs kep fuckin up me password.

Das when pop lets out da Jesus big grunt. I looks over and Jess got er arms round pop’s gut and my son she’s given er, heavin on poor ol pop like a squeeze box. If I had me time back I woulda requested Barney’s Reel but nan woulda been right gone wit me. Good ting I never t’ought of it.

Anyway, she squeezed poor ol pop dat much I tought e’s Jesus eyeballs was gonna shoot out e’s ead. But den, just like dat, I hears da sloppy big, “thwunk” and my son out shoots e’s weiner, nar toot mark into it (pop b’y, gets right gone for a tin a weiners, don’t even chew).

Nan n pop went to emerg. E’s fine. Nan’s right savage wit ‘n dough cause e’s not even sposed to be eating weiners on e’s clesterol meds.

Family tinks Jess is da best ting ever. And I tink maybe I does too. Takes a real woman to save pop from e’s weiner.

To be continued…