Walter Miller's Homepage

When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. Or perhaps your facing Granfather.

Janaury 1998 Update

Page 5 of 6

The night I had to drive to the pharmacey to get Granfathers prescritpions. When I came back I treid to ignore him for the rest of the evening, even thuogh I had to treat the boils on his ass and legs, plus some festoring fiberglass abraisions from where the sheepskin padding beneath him slid off, (or else burned and disintigrated from the smell of his ass).

I woud like to tak this oportunnity to thank David in anothor part of Texas who wrote in sugesting that we use a sollution of 50% Iodine and 50% sugar on Granfather's boils. We actualy discovored this a few months ago and it is wondorful because while the iodine is a disinfectent for the sores the sugor feeds the cells directley. The only problem is that granfather has a tendencey to atract bugs and so we have to sponge him off with some Malathion or Liqiud Sevin from the Home Depot. (Medicade does not pay for insecticides).

"KNOW WHUT BOY?" Granfather said to me as i smeared his scraggly yellow leathory knobbed skin with a badger hair shaving brush that was dipped in that syrupey Iodine and Sugar solution, "IT JEST AIN'T CHRISTMAS WITHOUT THE FAT MAN."

"AND I AIN'T TALKING ABOUT SANTIE CLAUS. I MEAN OL' JERRY GARCIA," said the bastord with a sad stare on his ogrelike face.

During the mid 70s when my Dad was strougling to get good grades in college while being a good fammily man to his wife and kids, his evil father, (Granfather) actaully took a year off to follow the Grateful Dead arround the countrey.

"PUT MUH DEAD CD ON! he hollared at me. The old bastord was the onley person in Rock and Roll history to be asked by other Dead fans to please STOP followin the Dead around due to his bad personol smelly odor.

Well I coudnt FIND the danm Dead CD, and the mean troll threw a giant screamming fit. He called me a "Wussy" and thretenned to choke me to death by lodging a bowling ball in my throahgt which woud be administerred into me from the rear, all the way up the alimentary canal. So that I woud be able to feel the little indentation of the crown shaped Brunswick Bowling Ball Compeny logo thats stamped into the ball on the back of my toungue. Granfather woud know how to do it, too.

I stourmed out of the house

I do NOT like viscous threats. There is a quiet place i go in one of the sheds. When I went in there and turned on the light, sitting there on a chair was this awful scary stuffed Santa Claus that we have that my cruel Grandmother used to own and that each year I try to throw it in the trash but Granfather keeps fishing it out. I get the shivvering willies each time i see it. It was wearing one of my ski masks that somehow Granfather got out of the drawer. I dont know HOW he does it, but he is an ammazing sneak who is supprizingly mobile and silentley ambulatory for someone who hapens to be secured by his scrottum to the inside bottom of a large basin.

'Amputee Santa'

The Santa stands abuot 3 feet high and is made of stuffed fabric. The face is hard moulded plastic and has peircing blue eyes that are slanted like an Asian person's becuase it was made in the Far East. There is a large vinyl tag stickin out of his side seam which reads, with this exact spelling:



The lips are abnormolly red and so are its revolting heavey rouged cheeks. The short thick arms stick striaght out at the sides, like he wants to eithor hug you, or crush your friggin head with a demonnic Santa smile. Also whoevor was running the plastic moulding machine over there in Tiawan made a misteak by puttin the wrong mouth mold on, because Santa's lips purse like a girl's doll plus have that litle hole in the centor for a toy bottle.

Worst of all

Down by the feet the legs purposeley terminate in blunt stumps becuase there used to be molded plastic boots beneath them. But the boots are missing now and the stumps are encrousted with dryed glue that used to hold them on. In place of the hard plastic mittens, also having ben tored off, all that remmains are fuzzy matted pegs.

The result is it looks like a danm evil dworf who lost his legs abbove the knee plus his hands below the wrist.

Each year on Chrismas Eve, my Grandmother used to scare the hell out of me and my brothor by placing this danm thing in the bed with us while we were sleeping then wake us up by sudenly turning on the lights screamming: "WHERES THE REST OF M -E-E-E???" like Ronold Reagan in the movie King's Row when he got his legs sawed off by the crazey doctor.

(For as crappy an actor Reagan was, rent Kings Row somtime and tell me he didnt pefform in that as good as any other acter you ever saw).

OK i am a big boy

I am no longer REALY afreaid of doll. Its just the vestigol memmories it brings back. The way it skeeves me out. In adition to "Where's-The-Rest-Of-Me-Santa," the othor things in this world which I feared as a child and still schkeeve:

  • Gnarley twisted Apple trees.

  • Giant Texas centipeades

  • Sunflowers. Especialy when they are 'looking' at you.

  • Cats -- especialy when they want to lick you. I am still scared of cats.

  • Those minaiture tiny corn on the cobs you see in the salad bar

  • Clowns. Not sad ones, but Happy ones. (Forget Bozo: I am crappin in my pants thinkin about Bozo rihgt now.)

  • Casey Kasum.

  • The front of the old Pontiacs. A see a litle of Granfather's face in them.

  • Formor Govorner Ann Richards. (The womon has a beard. A white downey beard. I got close once and saw it.)

  • The little creepy white Hamburger Helper hand with the smiley face on it. This I probly fear, STILL fear, more than the fires of Hell itself.

  • I stormed back into to the trailor and coudnt find him. Granfather was screammin at me now in a blind rage. In his irrationol tantrum, sayin that as long as i lived undor his roof, i was to NEVER...EVER walk out on him during a personol treatment. And then he demmanded that I imediatly stop what i was doing and fix him his Metamuscil for the night plus get him his vitamins and while i was at it fetch him a dish of ice cream. It is not realy icecream but his speciel Lactose Intolorant Dietary Lowfat Imitation Carob Frozen Dairy Dessert. And put some danm chocolat syrup on it too for Godsake.

    Grudgingley I set to do as i was told.

    Man was i pissed.

    My life sucks. i am asaulted verbally, and thanks to his gas and farts, atmosphherically abused as well. My job sucks and i cannot find another one. The peoplle i work with dont like me and treat me mean. The womon i love will not love me back. I cannot even say that she wished i was dead because she is a kind persen. And to top it all off, I notice from the containor in the fridge THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE SERVING LEFT OF CHOCOLLOTE SYRUP....

    Well i tell you what...

    ...Before i attack Granfathers disgousting fake ice cream with the metal scoop to dig the gummy lumps of his dessert out of the revolting containor which is all mossed on the inside with rancid ice fur, I decidded I was going to get MYSELF some icecream FIRST:

    Some REAL icecream, made of cream, sugar, skim milk solids, carrageenan, xanthan gum and naturol and artificiel flavorings. Listening to Granfather's droning catterwauling wails of abbuse from the other room, it was sweet revenge to puor the last of the choclatly syrup with the bottol upright in ordor to see the last sweet gleamming threads of dark richness dancing, bouncing, wriggling, onto MY icecream: NOT HIS.

    I threw the emptey bottol extra hard into the trash and said, "all out of chocolat sirup, Granpy." Then i sat down on the couch next to him in his tub while we watched TV. I made sure that he coud see that my ice cream had a topping on it but not his. And the joke is, that i do not even really LIKE chocolate syrip.

    Well the joke was on ME.

    Granfathers pestilent evil face told it all, his disgousting mouth widenning into a ghastley grin which was basted with a white gummy covoring of immitation dairy shellack. The syruop in my dish tasted like it must of gone bad....then i realized the whole storey when i saw the giant wiggly hair on my spoon. Oh YUCK.

    It was syrup allright but NOT the chocollate type but insted that horribble brown iodine and sugar mixture. Granfather plunged his hands downword below the rim of the tub, i heard a clinking noise and then the grizly beast held his soiled hands up to show me the tips glistening with brown muck. More awful wirey hairs were stuck in it.


    I geuss at this point I coud write a disertattion on what a sterling career the old bastord coud of had as a profesionol product tampering terrorist. Or else describe the vomitifferous sequel that came next, where, having little left to heave up due to my earlior sickness, i do beleive I was forthwith reacquainted with the appearence of a poorly preppared Mexican meal I ate in 1990.

    But insted as it is hard for me to talk abuot, i will say that it was at that momment I descided that i woud pack my things and go to California for the Christmas.

    Agianst Dad's explicit wishes: I am A.W.O.L.