The qeustion isnt what it's about. It's why i do it.
Page 3 of 6
I cant tell you how bad it smelled in the house when i came back. I knew he must of peed or pooed or both. Meanwhile the diapor was empty. I had seen this type of incredoble scennario beffore. I had TOLD him if there was any on the floor or walls he was in BIG TROUBOL. (I dont know HOW he does it, you know, gettin it on the floor or walls, and even more so considoring his remmarkable glandulor imprisonment of late, but he just does. Ive just never seen it. Mabye those sceintists can watch him and find out.)
"OH BOY," he said almost cheerfuly, and pointing to the TV set, "LOOK, 'ITS A MAGIC CHRISTMAS' IS ON AGINN! WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR BEN VEREEN!"
As I left to go into the othor room to get the phone which was ringing, I heard Granfather mutter desireously under his breath somthin like, FERGIT MORGAN FAIRCHILD, that he'd rathor be "rollin arround in the fleece" with that Carry Donovon babe.
The content producor guy had some bad news. He said that the project probly woudnt happen, because of the controvercial nature of the "objectionobble subject mattor" that is lately apearing on Walter Miller's Home Page.
I said, YOU think hes ojbectional? I am the one who has to clean up aftor him and lance the danm boils off his ass. I asked what specificaly did he mean, and he mentioned the fact that the storyline of Granfather being coght by one of his testicles in a hot tub was not propor "quality family entertainment" and that this woud prove a hurdol for lining up comercial sponsors. In fact he had three sponcors in particulor, and he was affraid even to pitch the concepts to them.
Well, I said, that it sure was dysfuntionol family entertanment, and that "qualitty" wasnt the isseu because what we were talking about was TRUE. Then I held up the phone so he coud hear Granfather, who just at that moment had let out a large, duly amplofied hot tub fart which reverberrated across the room.
"A PERFECK B-FLAT!" he screamed glorriously from the othor room, his reptillian face crinkling with glee.
Also, concerning comercial sponsors: I told this cartoon developor that Spumco.com, which is a web cartoon done by the Ren and Stimpy creator actualy had animatted dog turds marchin across the screen on their website--and they were able to get a cool sponsor like Tower Records.
But the convorsation got nowhere. At least for now. He did mention that he'd be at Internet World and so we agreed to meet there to talk abuot it more.
And aparantly Granfather IS worse. Well, no supprise THERE.
He also said that if I wanted his companey to line up sponsors then I would have to allow them to edit my episodes. And that meant NO BALL COGHT IN THE TUB.
Then i got off the phone becuase i had to break the news to Granfather. Remembor, he is the one whose heart was set on the cartoons more than me. In the meantime the content guy faxed me a list of potentiol sponsors. I am not allowwed to mention who these sponsors are.
Its just as well i got off the phone too, because Granfather was in annothor one of his rants agian. He kept yelling "HEY, BOY! THE REMOTE CONTROL! GIT ME THE REMOTE CONTROL OFF THE FLOOR!"
I went into the living room. The old bastord was now watching a tape of the X-Files from a few weeks ago, the one filmed in black and white where Jay Peterman from Sienfeld played a mad sceintist who created the 'Mutato' monstor, and where the leery paranoid townspeoplle all attacked him. Granfather looked up at me, encrusted with oatmeal, chewed tire rubber and spit allover his face, a cigar only a half inch long cletched tight in his teeth, and drinkin huge slurpey gulps of vodka mixed with vannilla flavvored Ensure Adult Nutritoinol Supplement from a small galvonized pail that used to hold a citronella candol in it, and which still had the burnt waxy candle stump at the bottom. Laying there in the low concavity of the seafoam green fiborglass hot tub, his scrawly knees brought up to his chest, and lumpy, boil encumbored haunches bared, looking like some sort of reclining, demonic, ovorsized anti-christ child in his creche, he pointed a gnarled talon to the TV and snarled at me with disgust in his voice and angor in his eyes, "HOW DARE THEM BIG CITY TV NETWORKS PORTRAY US RURAL TOWNFOLKS AS FOOLISH BACKWOOD IMBECILES!"
They had a new guy with them, a visiting professor from Eurrope. He took one look at Granfather grinning there and ran outside holding his moulth barfing. The othor 2 guys scribboled in their notebooks. "A normol response," one of them muttored.
I marched back in the living room to confront the bastord.
"YOU SAID DONT GIT NONE ON THE WALLS OR FLOOR." he growled. "THET THAR WUZ ON THE CEILING, BOY."