"Before you were born," said my uncle, "as fun-loving, adventure-seeking children we would sing, during the bus ride home through rural Pennsylvania: 'When your ***** hit the walls like Niagara Falls, it's a rupture. It's a rupture. When you fall off a cliff and your **** hits a stick, it's a rupture. It's a rupture.'”

“You're **** when you talk wet-back. Are you a wet-back?”

“No, I'm not a wet-back.”

 “That's good. I don't mind a little grease now and again.”

 “Me too.”

Are your pans chef-tested? My what? Pans. What does that mean? Hey! Climb down off my ***! No, my pans are not tested by chefs. They are non-chef-tested. What about your spatulas? Yes, a chef came 'round yesterday and beat his boyfriend unconscious with a large spatula.

I heard that you're a hot-shot executive at Dip **** & **** Muffin? Yes, I've been with them 3 years. I married Gloria **** Muffin, the founder's daughter. We have a lovely house that came with 3 children, all mulattos. That's wonderful. Is your wife tall? Indeed! She's seven or eight feet straight up, even taller if you lay her fat-*** on a pitched pitch roof, that is: a sloped roof covered in tar. I see. What about the pickaninnies? Are they trained? Yes, one of them is 300 pounds and can swim like a ******. It sounds to me that you live an ideal life as a hot-shot executive. I surely do.