Teenagers Prepared Me for Internet Scammers

I don’t fall for internet scams, pyramid schemes, or strangers promising fame, fortune, or overnight success. Not because I’m especially savvy—but because I raised teenagers. Once you’ve survived a household where logic is optional, guilt is weaponized, and responsibility is endlessly reassigned, an online scammer is just background noise.

Ever since my book Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure was released, I’ve become a magnet for spammers and scammers. Some want to help with marketing. Some want to make a book trailer. A few are legitimate businesses, just trying to make a living. Those don’t bother me. The scammers, however, are another breed entirely—and the publishing world seems to have plenty of them.

I’ve been contacted by fake Facebook accounts claiming to be Robert Pattinson, Oprah Winfrey, J.K. Rowling, Elon Musk (three different ones—apparently cloning is the real business), Haru Urara—who is a dead Japanese racehorse, famous for never winning a race—and even Edgar Allan Poe. I admire the dedication it takes for a man dead since 1849 to message me on Facebook.

The most recent was someone claiming to be New York Times bestselling author Meghan Quinn, using what she said was her personal Facebook account. She had only 121 followers. That alone raised an eyebrow. The second eyebrow went up when I wondered why a wildly successful, NYT bestselling author would be spending her time chatting with little ol’ me—a first-time author of unknown fame. I pictured deadlines, editors, book tours, and somehow penciling in casual Facebook conversations with strangers. It didn’t add up.

Even knowing she wasn’t who she claimed to be, I decided to play along. Call it curiosity. We chatted like two normal people. She asked questions. I answered. Then late one evening, the messages began drifting into spelling errors and questionable grammar, as though English wasn’t her first language. Either that, or she was drunk. Possibly both. A few messages later came the soft sales pitch: she could help get my book noticed. That’s when I got bored and blocked her.

None of this rattled me—not the flattery, not the guilt, not the vague urgency—and it finally dawned on me why.

I raised teenagers.

When my son was a teenager, we had a firm rule in our house: no dating until he was sixteen. A few weeks before his birthday, he explained that if he’d been born on time instead of arriving late, he would already be sixteen and therefore should be allowed to go on a date. I appreciated the creativity. I denied the request.

Years later, my grandson attempted a similar strategy. He totaled Jim’s car, then explained that the accident was actually not his fault—because the headlights weren’t bright enough. Not the speed, not the road, not the driver behind the wheel. The headlights.

If you’ve ever raised teenagers, you develop an internal alarm that goes off the moment logic starts doing gymnastics. You’ve heard “Everyone else’s parents let them.” You’ve witnessed the heavy sigh followed by “It’s fine. I didn’t really want to go anyway.” You’ve endured the long, wounded silence designed to make you feel like a terrible human being without a single word being spoken. You’ve been warned of vague catastrophes “Something bad could happen”, informed of social consequences that will surely last forever, and had responsibility reassigned in advance just in case.

You’ve also seen sudden mysterious illnesses appear five minutes before chores, unexpected hugs paired with “You’re the best mom ever,” compliments carefully wrapped around requests, and the classic courtroom defense: “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” Teenagers don’t just bend the truth—they put it in a yoga pose and expect you to admire the flexibility.

So when an internet stranger with a fake profile and a borrowed name tries to guilt me, pressure me, flatter me, or rush me into sending money, I don’t feel intimidated. I feel nostalgic. Compared to teenagers, internet scammers are rank amateurs. They don’t stand a chance.

So now I’m curious. What’s the most ridiculous argument a teenager has ever used on you—and did you almost admire the effort?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Super Bowl Sunday: Live From the Chicken Yard

I said “Super Bowl Sunday” out loud, and instantly the chicken yard went silent—that eerie pre-snap quiet where everyone’s waiting for the count.

Mike Crowe puffed up and took a few confident steps like he’d just won the coin toss. Hennifer Lopez lifted her head slowly, eyes locked on my hand, then the ground, then back to my hand again—that same dog-beg look that says, You’re going to want to put the food right here. I’ll wait.

Andrea shifted position, reading the field. Goldie Hen pretended she wasn’t interested, which fooled no one. Dixie Chick edged closer to the feed bin. Meryl Cheep and Reese Featherspoon hung back like veteran defenders, watching for mistakes. Reba McHentire stood her ground like she’d been doing this her whole career. Sheryl Crowe sidled in (last name purely coincidental, no relation to Mike Crowe) already prepared to steal something and deny it later.

I hadn’t even opened the bag, and I was already under pressure.

When the bowl finally hit the ground, the first mealy worm dropped like a kickoff, and the yard exploded. Andrea charged straight up the middle, driving her beak down for yardage. Goldie Hen slid in from the side and threw a solid block, cutting off Dixie Chick and opening a lane wide enough to drive a tractor through.

Hennifer Lopez saw it instantly and cut left, scooping the worm and heading for daylight—but Andrea wrapped her up mid-stride, wings flaring, feathers flying, a clean, no-nonsense tackle that stopped the play cold.

The worm didn’t move.
Everyone else did.

Mike Crowe ran the sideline crowing, a play-by-play announcer who had very strong opinions and absolutely no influence over the game.

In the chaos, Sheryl Crowe darted in, snagged the worm, and took off on a return so fast nobody saw the interception happen. Reese Featherspoon gave chase. Meryl Cheep followed. Dixie Chick joined in late, because that’s her style. Reba McHentire held her ground, unimpressed. She’d seen better plays in earlier seasons.

By the time the dust settled, possession was unclear, tempers were high, and at least one hen felt she’d been robbed by bad officiating.

Then the pace slowed. The hens flopped into the dirt like linemen between drives, dust bathing and pretending this was all very controlled. Mike Crowe strutted past them, chest out, crowing victory for reasons known only to him.

I thought the quarter was over.

Hennifer Lopez stood up, shook off the dust, and stared at the empty patch of ground where the bowl had been. Then she looked at me. Then the ground again.

Same signal.
Same expectation.

That look said, Nice drive. Now bring out the real play.

And that’s when I realized my mistake. I had said “Super Bowl” without clarifying terms. I’d hyped the crowd, crossed midfield on nothing but optimism, and left myself wide open.

Inside homes everywhere, humans argued about refs and commercials.

Out in my yard, the chickens ran their own game—blocking, tackling, intercepting, calling audibles, and demanding a replay in the form of a refill.

And eventually, worn down by relentless pressure and one rooster who would not stop crowing about it…

I refilled the bowl.

Final score:
Chickens—undefeated.
Human—still learning the rules.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Perfectly Reasonable Plan

Last summer we drove four hours each way to pick up four sheep—three ewe lambs, about five months old, and one wether, which is a neutered male. The wether’s job was simple: keep the ram company until breeding season, then politely excuse himself so spring lambs would arrive at a sensible time of year. Because January lambs are not lambs. They are lambsicles. I refuse to participate in that program.

Everything was planned. Everything was thought through. We had gates. We had panels. We had a system. I felt organized, which should have alerted me immediately that something was about to go terribly wrong.

Before unloading, I blocked a barn door to keep Gus—our livestock guardian dog—out of the area. Gus is very good at his job. Unfortunately, his job description includes personally inspecting all new arrivals immediately, regardless of human, or sheep, opinion.

We unloaded the first two sheep without incident: a very pretty brown ewe and the wether. Calm. Cooperative. Civilized. I remember thinking, Well look at us, hauling livestock like people who know what we're doing.

That’s when Gus hulked his way through the barricade like the barn door had personally insulted his mother. The two sheep already on the ground saw a large white dog appear out of thin air and did what sheep do best when startled: they achieved teleportation.

Under the truck.
Down the driveway.
Into the woods.

Gone.

I slammed the tailgate shut before the remaining two could join the jailbreak, escorted Gus back behind the now-reinforced door, and secured the pen like I was sealing off a federal prison. The last two sheep unloaded beautifully. Of course they did. The chaos quota had already been filled.

Then came the search.

We walked the woods. We called. We contacted neighbors. We posted on the town Facebook page, which is where lost items go to be mourned publicly. We even notified a lost dog rescue group. Everyone with game cameras checked them frequently, because nothing excites people quite like the possibility of spotting someone else’s escaped livestock.

Calling for the sheep was useless. They didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t their human, and I wasn’t a sheep, so my opinion on the matter carried very little weight.

At one point, I stood in the driveway and loudly played a YouTube video of sheep baaing from my cellphone, hoping flocking instinct, curiosity, or peer pressure might convince them to come home. If any neighbors were watching, this is when they would have decided I should not be left alone.

I also secretly hoped that when breeding season arrived, nature would prevail and the ewe would somehow follow her biological GPS back to my ram, because surely sheep had better internal navigation than I did.

They did not. Days passed. Then weeks. No sightings. No sheep. Eventually, “missing” became “probably.” They were almost certainly a very tasty—albeit very expensive—coyote snack.

So yes, we drove eight hours round-trip to bring home four sheep. And ended up with two. A friend gave me a wether to keep my ram company, because while sheep may wander off into the woods, farmers tend to circle back and help each other patch the holes.

That was last summer. Here we are in January with two ewes expecting lambs in April—ewes who now know me very well as the bringer of food. My voice carries authority these days, especially when accompanied by a grain bucket.

The barn is quiet again. Order has been restored. Gus still believes he did nothing wrong. And spring, as always, is coming.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Well, Look What Just Landed on My Doorstep

Today the FedX truck pulled in, the driver wrestled a couple of heavy boxes onto the porch, and just like that… Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure became real.

Not an idea.

Not a manuscript.
Not a file living on my computer.

A book.
One hundred of them, to be exact.

I stood there holding a copy and thought about all the years behind it—the animals, the mud, the mayhem, the moments that made me laugh out loud, and the ones that made me stop and think. Farming has a way of producing more than food. Sometimes it produces stories, and sometimes those stories refuse to stay put.

This book is a collection of those stories. Some are humorous, some are heartfelt, all of them 100% homegrown. If you’ve ever lived in the country, worked with animals, raised kids, or simply wondered if you’re the only one having these ridiculous, tender, unforgettable moments—this book is for you.

Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure is now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, or at my doorstep.

I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who has read my blog, shared a laugh with me, or said, “Oh good—so it’s not just me.” You’re the reason these stories found their way onto paper.

And yes… I may have opened one just to smell it.
Some things never change.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Now Available for Pre-Order!

📯 Hear ye, hear ye! Attention all fence-leaners, barn-walkers, and lovers of real stories:

Let it be known that Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure is now officially available for pre-order on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, with a release date of January 27. 

What began as stories shared from the farm—written between chores, weather changes, and multiple animal uprisings—has now been gathered, bound, and sent out into the world as a book.

This milestone didn’t happen in a vacuum. It happened because of readers who showed up, laughed along, shared posts, and said, “You should put this in a book.” Well… here it is.

The bell has been rung.

The fenceposts are set.
The rest, as they say, is history.

📖 Pre-order here:
Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem and Manure

After you’ve enjoyed Between the Fenceposts, I’d be grateful if you’d consider leaving a brief review on Amazon. Reviews help readers find the book—and they matter more than you might think. Even a sentence or two makes a difference.

Thank you for taking the time to read and for supporting this little farm book as it heads out into the big world.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Only Gynecology Appointment I’ve Ever Enjoyed

If you read my earlier story about going to the ER because I noticed blood in my urine, then you already have the background for this continuing saga. (If not, you can check it out here.) As it turns out, the blood wasn’t coming from my urine at all, but from other parts of my nether-regions—namely, my lady bits.

Without going into gory detail, spotting at my age is not a “let’s keep an eye on it” situation. It’s a “call the doctor and do NOT Google anything” situation. So I made an appointment with a gynecologist.

Now, women understand the position. Men can only imagine it, and frankly, that’s for the best.

There I was on the table—feet in the stirrups, legs spread wide, scooted so far down my backside was practically threatening to exit the room, with a sheet draped over me. And I would really like to know what modesty that sheet is supposed to protect, because whatever dignity I once had was already gone, possibly hitchhiking south to a warmer climate.

The doctor had the speculum inserted and was peering into all that is holy when his assistant decided this was the perfect time to make small talk. I assume this was meant to distract me and make me feel less exposed, which I appreciated, though at that moment I was about as exposed as a person can legally be in a doctor's office.

She asked what I do in my retirement. I told her that while I no longer have 400 chickens, 15 milk goats, and various other critters, I do still have a few sheep and about a dozen chickens. Then I mentioned that I’d written a book.

They both snapped to attention.

Both she and the doctor wanted to know what it was about, so I explained that it was a collection of funny you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up moments from farm and country life. That’s when the doctor said he used to have a small hobby homestead himself.

And then—without missing a beat, and without removing the speculum—he launched into a story about his quadriplegic chicken, laughing like it was the highlight of his medical career.

He had a two-story barn, with the chickens housed upstairs and a long ramp leading down to a fenced outdoor area. One day, his kids were tossing chickens out the upper door and watching them flap their way down like feathery little parachutists. One chicken did not flap. She plummeted straight down, hitting like a sack of feed tossed from a pickup truck.

When they ran down to retrieve her, they discovered she couldn’t walk. Or flap. Or do anything remotely chicken-related. So, naturally—because this is what farm people do—they brought her into the house and put her in a dog crate to “see how she did.”

She did great. She ate normally. She drank normally. She stared at them with what I can only assume was profound curiosity.

Days passed. Then weeks. No improvement. No movement. Just a fully functioning chicken operating entirely from the neck up. Eventually, they accepted that she wasn’t going to recover and did the humane thing.

By this point, the doctor was laughing so hard he had to pause the exam, his assistant had tears running down her face, and I was lying there thinking that this was NOT how I expected my gynecology appointment to go—but I’d had worse conversations in the grocery store. No matter where you go—even the gynecologist—farm life follows you. 

And I can't even begin to imagine what people passing by the exam room door were thinking. Hysterical laughter is not what one usually hears from an exam room in a busy gynecologist's office.

I’ll get the results of my tests in a few weeks. But I can honestly say this was the only gynecology appointment I’ve ever enjoyed.

If you’re going to assume the position, the least the universe can do is provide a doctor with a sense of humor and a severely broken chicken.

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It’s Official. Mark Your Calendars. Circle It in Red

Between the Fenceposts hits Amazon on January 27th.

Well… here we are.

After years of living it, writing it, rewriting it, laughing at it, deleting parts that were too honest (and then putting them back in), Between the Fenceposts officially goes live on Amazon January 27th.

That’s not a “soft launch.”
That’s not a “kind of available if you know where to look.”
That’s the real deal. Hit-the-button, show-up-on-Amazon, there-it-is release day.

This book was born the old-fashioned way—one story at a time, usually while wearing barn clothes, usually interrupted by something needing to be fed, fixed, or caught. It’s a collection of life as it actually happens between the fenceposts: the animals, the mishaps, the moments that make no sense unless you’ve lived them… and the quiet truths that sneak up on you when you’re not looking.

Some of these stories made me laugh out loud while writing them.
Some made me stop and sit for a minute.
All of them are true—no embellishment needed. Real life on a farm already has better timing than fiction.

If you’ve ever:

• Talked to an animal like it understood you (and suspected it did)

• Tried to have a “normal” day and failed spectacularly

• Found meaning in the middle of manure, mud, and mayhem

…this book is for you.

I’ll share the Amazon link as we get closer, but for now, consider this your official heads-up:

📅 January 27th
📖 Between the Fenceposts
☕ Coffee, or a mug of hot chocolate, optional but recommended
😂 Snort-laughing entirely possible

Thank you to everyone who’s read the blog, shared a story, laughed along, and said, “You should put this in a book.”
Well… I did.

Share and spread the word. See you on release day.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Nothing Says "Merry Christmas" Like a Trip to the ER

Well, That Was Fun—NOT!

Let’s back up a bit.

The day before Christmas, my back started hurting. I wasn’t doing anything heroic or even mildly athletic. I was standing at the kitchen counter peeling apples for apple crisp—hardly an extreme sport—when wham! My left lower back decided it had had enough of holiday cheer and would be checking out early.

Standing upright became a painful suggestion. Sitting or lying down helped, but being vertical was apparently optional now. This put a noticeable damper on the whole “joy to the world” thing.

That evening we went to my daughter’s house and stayed overnight, returning home Christmas Day. And when I say stayed overnight, I use the term loosely. I’m not sure how much actual sleeping happened on my part.

At home, Jim and I have officially joined the ranks of old married people with separate sleeping quarters. Let me be clear: I love Jim. What I do NOT love is how he sleeps.

His nightly routine includes full-body jumps, leg twitching, snoring, farting, and mumbling. Not even useful mumbling. Nothing you can understand and later use for blackmail. Just vague, conversational noises that strongly suggest he’s deeply engaged in negotiations with someone who does not exist.

All of this was present as we shared one bed in my daughter’s guest room. To make matters worse, Jim is not accustomed to having anyone within arm’s reach, so several times during the night he rolled over and I either got clunked in the head or discovered an elbow in my already unhappy back.

Christmas morning arrived with the back pain still intact and my sleep tank hovering somewhere near empty. That combination tends to make a person mutter “Bah, humbug” with genuine conviction.

The backache stuck around all weekend. I planned to call the doctor Monday morning, but we were hit with a nasty ice storm and probably couldn’t have gotten there anyway.

Then Monday evening things took a turn. I noticed blood in my urine. Well… that’s definitely not in the instruction manual.

So off to the ER we went, sliding carefully through the storm like sensible people who had clearly angered the universe. They did a CT scan. They tested my urine. They poked. They prodded. They looked thoughtful.

And then… nothing.

No kidney stone.
No infection.

But they did give me a shot of Toradol and a muscle relaxant. And let me just say—can I have more of that, please? It didn’t take the pain away entirely, but it was so much better that I briefly considered asking if I could just live there for a while.

Instead, they scratched their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sent me off into the dark and stormy night with a prescription for Flexeril and instructions to call my doctor's office in the morning for a follow-up.

This morning, I did exactly as instructed. The soonest appointment I can get is ten days from now. Good thing this isn’t an emergency. 

So now I wait. Ten days. Armed with Flexeril, a heating pad, and the knowledge that my body has apparently entered its “surprise malfunction” era. I’m not a pessimist, but a lot could happen between now and then—just sayin'. I mean, entire empires have fallen faster. I’ll hang on, since I don’t have much choice, and hope the Flexeril works whatever quiet miracle it’s capable of.

If nothing else, this whole experience has reminded me of one important holiday lesson:

Christmas miracles might be real.
But apparently, timely medical appointments are not.

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©2025 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Lambing Season — Not Everyone Speaks Farm

I had a doctor’s appointment on Monday to discuss my right ankle, which has officially crossed the line from “annoying” to “needs a complete replacement.” Before that can happen, I need a CT scan so they can manufacture the correct part—which makes me feel less like a patient and more like a vintage piece of farm equipment. The kind where someone squints, sighs, and says, “Well… we’ll have to make one.”

Originally, this was all supposed to work.

If things had gone smoothly, I would have had the CT scan done in mid-November, the replacement surgery scheduled for mid-December, and enough recovery time—not perfect, but sufficient—to be back in the barn by lambing season in April. That was the plan. A reasonable plan. A farmer-approved plan.

Which is exactly why Murphy took an interest.

The problem wasn’t my orthopedic specialist. My team at Concord Ortho has been right on their game from the start—orders sent, follow-ups made, timelines explained clearly. If competence were hay bales, they’d have the barn stacked to the rafters.

Radiology, however, had other ideas.

For over a month, Concord Hospital Radiology insisted they had never received the CT order. This was after the doctor’s office resent it at least half a dozen times. Each time, the response was the same: Nope. Nothing here.

Eventually—through what I assume was divine intervention or exhaustion—Radiology received the order and an appointment was finally scheduled for mid-December. I drove all the way there, right on time, only to be informed that their machine was down and they couldn’t do the scan.

“Oh,” they said cheerfully, “you should have been called.”

That would have been useful information.

But there was no phone call.
No voicemail.
No text.
No missed call.
No carrier pigeon.
No smoke signal drifting over the parking lot.

Nothing.

At that point, Murphy wasn’t just involved—he had clearly taken over scheduling.

Because of those delays, the earliest I could now have surgery would be the end of January. And that’s too close to lambing season. Not enough recovery time. Not enough margin for error. Not enough ankle to bet the farm on.

So now the plan is to limp along until next November, get the CT scan then, and schedule surgery for next December—not because the sheep are finished with their annual reproductive rodeo (though that description still stands), but because December is when they move into their winter paddock. That’s when chores settle down, routines tighten up, and farm life begins to resemble something that could loosely be described as normal—assuming such a thing exists on a farm.

The doctor gave me a corticosteroid injection to buy me some time and wanted to see me back in three months. I asked for four.

“Lambing season,” I said.

The woman at the scheduling desk stared at me like I’d just referenced a minor holiday she’d somehow missed her whole life. She had absolutely no idea what I meant.

So I explained. I have sheep. And yes, I did carefully time when I put the ram in with the ewes, which means lambing isn’t a surprise—it’s a window.

Unfortunately, that window lasts about a month.

And during that month, it is best not to plan anything. No trips. No appointments. No commitments that require being more than ten minutes from the barn. Because if I do, if I schedule a doctor’s appointment three hours away, I can guarantee that someone will go into labor just as I’m backing out of the driveway.

This is not superstition.
This is Murphy’s Law.

And I am convinced Murphy was a farmer.

Who else would arrange a torrential rainstorm precisely when you’ve got a hay field cut, dried, and ready to bale? Or schedule lambs to arrive the one morning you’re wearing clean, socially acceptable church clothes? Or injure a sheep just as you’re headed to your cousin’s wedding where you are the maid of honor and already running late?

Murphy doesn’t visit farms.
He lives there.

Now, Katahdin sheep are known for being easy birthers and good mothers, and most of the time they live up to the brochure. More often than not I walk into the barn in the morning and find two lambs tucked into a corner, dried off, well fed, and deep into a milk-coma nap while their mother is at the hay feeder pretending she didn’t just perform a miracle overnight.

But these are first-time mothers, and first-time anything comes with a learning curve. A lamb can get stuck. A ewe can look at her newborn and think, Well, that’s interesting, and walk away. Twins can arrive, and she might decide only one of them belongs to her—like an accidental buy-one-get-one she never intended to redeem.

Is that likely? No.
Is it possible? Absolutely.

So I need to be available. I need to be mobile. I need to be able to respond quickly to situations that begin with, “Well… this isn’t ideal.”

Eventually, the woman at the desk nodded.

“Oh,” she said. “So… babies.”

“Yes,” I said. “Babies who wait until you’ve made other plans.”

She smiled and scheduled my follow-up for the end of April instead of the end of March.

Which was the right call.

Because Murphy doesn’t care about calendars, medical specialists, or carefully engineered ankle replacements. He only cares whether things were supposed to work out—and whether he can prove, once again, that you should have known better.

He just waits until everything is lined up, pats you on the back, and says, “That’s cute. Now watch this.”

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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Family-Friendly Shakespearean Insults Guide

I’ve mentioned now and then that I occasionally invent—or mutter—
words I wouldn’t have said in front of my grandmother. Let me clarify that before anyone faints into their sweet tea. I don’t use profanity. I don’t like profanity. And I firmly believe the English language already gives us far more imaginative ways to add color to our vocabulary without dragging the paint bucket through the mud.

Now, I’m not judging anyone who does let fly with the four-letter fireworks. If that’s your brand of spice, have at it. Whatever keeps your boat afloat and your blood pressure regulated. I love you anyway. But for me? No thanks. I prefer my “colorful language” with a bit of creativity—and ideally a little flourish.

Some folks use the f-bomb so often it’s less of a word and more of a nervous tic. Several times in one sentence, even. At that point, it’s not vocabulary—it’s a cry for help.

That said, taking the scenic route around profanity instead of sounding like a longshoreman hasn’t always been easy. Years ago, I came this close to unleashing an expletive-laced tirade at my now ex-husband. My three kids were in the next room, and I didn’t want to taint my image as the calm, civilized parent—so in the heat of the moment I blurted out, “You, you… you sanctimonious pig!” Hey, it was the best I could come up with on short notice. But it did stop the argument cold—he looked at me like, ‘What does that even mean?’ and then just walked away. Frankly, I’m still a little proud of it.

Years later, I stumbled across a Shakespeare Insult Kit. It was a beautiful thing: three tidy columns of fantastically ridiculous words that, when combined, produced an endless parade of majestic, Elizabethan-style verbal zingers. 

The real reason I wouldn’t have said any of them in front of my grandmother wasn’t because they were rude, or crude—it’s because the poor woman wouldn’t have understood a single syllable. She’d have stopped me mid-tirade, asked what on earth I was talking about, and I’d have spent the next ten minutes explaining myself. And once you have to explain a joke—or an insult—it loses that bit of spontaneous sparkle that makes the moment worth having in the first place.

So here's a few examples to get you started. If you want the complete list, just email me (use the contact form, or PM me on FB). I'd be happy to share.

GRANDMA-APPROVED INSULTS FOR EVERYDAY USE

(Choose one item from each column to assemble your insult.)

Column A	Column B	Column C
Thou art a	fusty-muzzled	clodhopper
Get thee gone, thou	hay-snuffling	beetle-nosed knave
Listen here, thou	barn-addled	turnip-toting rascal
Mark my words, thou	thistle-brained	fence-leaping scallywag
I say, thou	muck-dabbling	chicken-startling varlet
	whey-witted	beet-brained gaffer
	goat-bothering	dung-dodging loon
	bramble-shanked	pasture-pillaging rogue
	rustic-minded	cud-chewing miscreant
	wool-gnawing	manure-minded scamp

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