“Damn, Bubba,” Skeeter let out a low whistle. “I didn’t know you knew what a vernacular was, much less how to use it in a sentence.” He actually sounded impressed.
“Kiss my ass, Skeeter. It was on that Word of the Day calendar you gave me for Christmas last year.” I followed Collette around the mob of kids screaming for Santa, and we ducked into Santa’s house where I stopped cold as the afternoon Santa was standing there with no pants on.
“Little bastard pissed on me.” The old man grumbled, pulling on a pair of red sweatpants and tossing his soiled costume pants into a laundry hamper in the corner of Santa’s shack. Obviously this had happened before. “I hope you brought a spare pair of pants, rookie. These little shits have all had their afternoon snack. I bet you don’t get through eight
