Thrift Shop

My granny had enrolled me at the local carwash correspondence
school. "Ah graduated wif a bronzed chamois cloth an' we had  
pickled elbow macaroni fo' supper." I was going on fifty years old
but I could still cut the mustard greens as well as my illegitimate children.  
 
I moonlighted as a guard at the second-hand thrift store. It
didn't pay much but I got a good deal on a pair of argyle
socks and long under britches. "Not t'menshun, three lug nuts  
fo' mah 1958 Shevuhlay pickem'up truk."  
 
I spotted a burka bushing a cart down aisle three. A long,  
loose garment covahin' th' whole hide fum haid t'feet.
 
"Raise yer han's. Yer unner arress fo' shop lif'in'." It was a
good week. I was spitting in high cotton, except this was the
hosiery section. In her cart was a mannequin's leg.  
 
She let go of the cart handle amd skipped on one leg.I didn't  
have my usual mace, so I spritzed her with Febreze. I thought  
the air reeked of camel. She fell down as if genuflecting to  
me.  
 
"Yo' haf th' right t'remain silent. Enny thin' yo' say. Blah,
blah, blah. Will be held aginst yer ornery old ass."
 
I confiscated the mannequin's leg. Only to discover it was her  
prosthetic leg and she was a nun, wearing the habit.