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I have been told I have Bi-Polar Disordor but i think onley one of the poles is actualy working.

Suposed to be The Late June (but realy in July) 98 Update

Page 4 of 7

Another complication

Junior didnt burn Granpy, but the grates sure got hot faster than we thoght. Granfather started sweatting. He tearfuly told me that he woud never be mean to me or enbarass me agian, or never agian tell any embarasing story about me, if i woud Please, RIGHT NOW, go across the street and get a cold can of pop from the vending machene to pour ovor his trapped nads while Junior worked.

The pop cost only 65 cents but it I didnt have no change and after 100 tries I coud NOT get the only danm soggy dollor bill I had on me into the slot.

Meanwile Granfathers globes got hottor.

I ran back and got Junoir who has a gift for feeding dollors into pop machenes, and told him to try while I worked with the cigarete lightor while in gentol soothing tones I treid to allay the fears of my increasingley panicked semi-human ancestrol progenitor.

Junoir is so danm dumb.

Here we are, suposed to be quiet, and he hollares from across the street, "Coke or Diet Coke?"

By now it was allmost fully light and the first cars of the day ambled down the street and any minnute now the deputy woud awake. Granfather staired at us both severely and spoke with the stern resolved conviction of the leadding military toy in the Small Soldiers film while pointing his creepy beef jerkylike finger down crotchward: "MEN, WE CAIN'T EXPAND THIS HERE GRATE. WE'VE GOT TO SHRINK THOSE THAR NUTS."

We all three racked our brains tryin to think of stuff that woud cause one's genitols to retract and deflate. Be it words, phraises, or images. Whethor shrinkage was acheived by fear or revulsion, it diddn't matter. Junior and me each grabbed one of granfather's cheezy ears and started franticaly whisperring them in:

"Janet Reno in a bikini!"

"The Designated Hitter Rule!

"President Dan Quayle!"

"The IRS is coming! And you ain't got no receipts!"

"Gun control!"

"The Great State of Texas casts all of her delegate votes to...Jane Fonda!"

"'King of the Hill' will not be seen tonight..."

"The system has encountered an error and will shut down!"

"Sorry, your Adult Check ID is invalid!"

"Soylent Green isn't people at all -- it's quiche! Quiche I tell you!"

"You've chosen Bachelorette Number Three...Ariana Huffington!"

"For Uncensored versions of these hot .JPEGs, please have your credit card ready..."

"Welcome to Denny's, may I take your order?"

"Microsoft Tip Wizard(TM) anticipated your thoughts, and has re-formatted your document!"

With each awful reppugnent statement, Granfather shut his eyes and concentraited, his gnarled, twiglike fingors pressed to his temples.

"SHRINKAGE...SHRINKAGE...SHRINKAGE..." he reappeated like a mantra. Sudenly his watery yellow eyes popped open as a gleam of hope spread ovor his horiffic face.



I have written abbout many aspects of the old coot and the one thing that I write so many times abuot, and yet cannot come close to describbing with any reppulsive acurracey is

Granfather's skin

Like the surface of an alein planet right out of sceince fiction, Granpy's craggley outormost veneer is a land of many contrasts. The skin of his face as you know resembles hotdogs which have been ovor heated in a micrawave oven untill they exploade. His scalp is like a mossy mass of fungus, matting and waxy buildup. His limbs are leathery, pustuled, rough and lumpy, plus covored with coarse filamentlike weeds of hair...His chest is like the offspring of a gorrilla with Jo-Jo-the-Dog-Faced-Boy Disease who mated with some sort of South Paciffic Island Chicken Deity who was raised by wolves and was found in the wild clothed in rancid pineapple husks. His back is like an alligator that has rotten overripe avocodos growing on it. His ass...I will not talk about his ass or the othor parts of him stuck into and within and withuot and (mostley within) the iron grate. It ranges from a closeup of an obese iguana with adult-onset acne in a Fun House mirror, to the the shreiking laughing decomposing puppet in the Tales of the Cript who somebody tarred and feathored and covored with tomato aspic jelly, to a low arial photo of Brice Canyon in a hailstorm. Or mabye perhapps the sinewed burlappy thatch of a cantolope's outer hide. Yes, words, colors, textures, or toppographicol descriptions canot describe the surfece of the Beast. Alls i can tell you is I had to smear day-old Crisco on it withuot the benefit of a rubbor glove.

Lyeing Sonoffobbich

We escaped allright, and literally by the last hair of Granfather's, (Um, you know, please dont make me say it.) And even thuogh the sheriff's departmant and the county Clerk know where we live, atleast Granfather has a small case agianst them, in case the clerk wanted to press charges: They woudnt help free the bastord, and so you cant blame him for gettin himself out on his own.

On the way home I sat in the cab of the pickup truck with Junior while Granfather sat on an old spare tire in the back cargo area with the six feet of diagonaly rising iron railing still stuck arround his neck. The old cruel bastord slid open the back window and scratched Junior's truck with the fence when he poked his ugly head in. He started giggling and then laughin. He said, "HEY JUNIOR. I GOT ME A FUNNY STORY."

Then, in a direct lie to his promise NOT to tell, the old beast started tellin Junior the story of Hercules' youngor brother:

Here is the story of 'Testacles'. (Prounounced TEST -a-cleeze). When i was in the sixth Grade, Granfather spent two weeks ovor the Chrismas holiday at our house in California. Over the school break, each kid in the class was suposed to do a book repport on one of the Mythologicol Gods or creatures. (In those days my mother was still alive and she said I oughto to pick the Minatore or else Medusa because these were scary monsters who resemboled Granfather.)

Anyway I had chosen to do mine on Hercoules and Granfather thoght this was a dumb idea.

"ALL THAT WUSSY HERCULES EVER DID WAS SHOVEL HORSE CRAP OUT O'THEM AEGEAN STABLES," he gruffed at me across the supper table, spittin corn niblets and chewed succotash arround the room as he spoke; (it was days like this when my mothor, bless her soul, wantad to kill the old bastord ).

After supper me and Granpy took a walk down the street I grew up on, He swung his hiddeous, overley long primate arm arround my shouldor as we walked, and as all the othor children in the neighborhood scattored away in baldfaced fear at the aproaching sight and stink of him, Granfather, in one of the few kind, gentol and granfatherly times in his misorable life, began to tell me the story of Hercules's less-fammous brother: TESTACLES.

Lator that night on the patio, aftor my family went to sleep, and by the light of the citronella bucket candles, Granfather helped me write the book repport. He practicly dictated the story to me as my small pale fingors furiously wrote down the capptivating prose. I knew the bastord had a way with profannity, but I'd nevor known he had such a way with words.

I remmember asking him, "Granfather, shoudnt we need to take out a book down at the children's liberry?" (In those days I pronnounced library 'liberry')



In Janaury, aftor the basterd went back to Texas I pubblicly presented to my 6th grade class the story of "Testacles: Balls Of Strentgh"; (Gonadal Press, Ballwin, MO., Rockville, MD., and Twin Stones, OH., 1954).

My teachor turned white. A teachor's aide sat in the back, and she luaghed her ass off. The kids in the class just staired blankly ahead as kids that age do in class. -- Even at things like "his father Testostorone" and his "evil stepmothor, Estrogen."

I was sent to the principol's office where i was asked to dellivor the report agian. I thoght they LIKED it and that I was goingto get an "A". But insteadd I got in troubel. Plus I kept on lying and said that i realy did read the book in the liberry.

The rest of that year was a downword spiral for me. By the barest hair on my ass did i not haveto reppeat the 6th grade.

I said to him SHUT UP Granfather, and then I slid the window shut. The cackolling laughing sadistic bastord then turned his atention on a car that was tryin to pass us on the state Highway. Just as the car got beside us, Granps leaned downword so the iron fencing arround his neck scraiped along the surfece of the pavement makking a high showor of sparks in his face. It made an awfull noise and the poor guy slammed his breaks on and slid into the gravel shoulder.

I feel like my life is one part babysitter, one part zookeeper and one part rat wrangler. And that is not even at my job at work, but just at home careing for Granfather. I am not even sure what a "Rat wranglor" is, but i saw it in the creddits of a film once that had a scene with allot of rats in it. Mabye he is the guy who takes care of the rats. Mabye i am just a bastord wrangler.

Meanwhile I have enuogh problems at work