“You’re right, Skippy. It’s a sad thing when bread goes bad,” I shook my head sadly. “First you notice the vodka in the liquor cabinet is getting watered down, because bread has been drinking it and topping off the bottle with water, like you wouldn’t notice. Then bread starts stealing cash from Grandma’s purse to buy drugs, and it’s all downhill from there. What’s worse is when there’s an empty chair at the Thanksgiving table because bread is in prison, and everyone is awkwardly not talking about it.” “What?” He sputtered. “Joe, what in the hell are you talking about?” I winked at him. “You
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