Mr. J and I were sitting at the dining table, playing cribbage and eating a candy bar; that is, Mr. J was eating my leftover candy bar, dropping bits of it out of his mouth as he chewed (he's like that), while I was supposed to be shuffling the cards for my next deal. Instead, I was staring open-mouthed (I learned it from watching him!) at him, the cards completely forgotten in my hands, a little surprised that a man could make such a mess with one little candy bar (this shouldn't be a shock to me after all this time, but it still is). Chocolate droppings scattered across the table in front of him as he murdered my candy bar with his mouth.
As I watched in disgusted fascination, he wet his fingertip and began collecting the escaped bits of chocolate while I supervised and pointed out crummies he'd missed. I thought he was deliberately avoiding that last crumb and pointed at it insistently.
It wasn't until he ran his palm flat over the table that I realized it wasn't a crumb at all; I blurted out, "Oh! It's a dick!"
That's right, I said dick. I'm sure I meant that it was a ditch, or a divet, or a ding, but by the time it passed my lips it was a dick.