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(Aftor all, shoudnt parents be forced to pay for kids to read crap like this in school?)

June 1998 Update

Page 5 of 8

Finaly the day was over and the Lady Who Scraems At Everyone came to get him. Too bad she is not the type of creature who eats her young.

I went back to my desk and found 3 more phonmails. The first was from Granfather, telling me that there was now a "change in plans." It seems that him and his girlfreind were now in the process of working things out -- So I'd better not show up at her house to pick him up, unless, he said in a leering snickering voice, I wanted to catch the two of them congreggating with one anothor in a carnol way. The way he said it I thoght I was going to vomit. I held my head down on the desk and tryed to concentraite on some of the steamior scenes of the The Last Seducton in a desperat atempt to banish the horroble images of Granfather and his girlfreind which were now indelibly tatooed on my brain. But it didnt work.

The next message was from the Dallas office.

They told me very angrily that they didnt know who I was, but that I had bettor get ahold of both the Austin office and the Chicaggo office and tell them to STOP CALLING them and telling them not to have aneything to do with the Cyberblop office that i worked in.

The third phoenmail was from the pain in the ass womon in Chicago who was now informing me to "Place an All Stop" on all of our office's web projects efective imediatly: We were to build NO MORE WEBSITES for clients, until this dumbass "task force" that she was now asembling coud audit "The whole enterprise-wide bisness model" -- whatevor the hell THAT meant.

You have to remmember, I initialy called this idiot only by mistake.

She also said that she was "proactively escalating" our approval for the Big Rollout, and if she had her way, it woud be cancelled. I guess she didnt give a danm that we were already sending press kits out for it. Not to mention, we were undor contract to the danm clients.

I have seen this type of corporate stupiditty before.

It always comes from people in other departments who dont have enuogh work of their own to do. Plus, they are too scaired to launch new projects in their own department. And so instedd, they seek out projects that other people are doing, merely to tell them to STOP.

Then, just as these butt kissing lackeys get the ball rolling, they allways brag to Top Managment abuot what they are doing, and after it is all said and done, Top Mannagment usualy says, "Harumph! That persen is a real mover and shaker!" and then they get a promotion.

Meanwhile our own deppartment is de-funded and out on our ass. Oh well. I cant get too upset abuot the whole thing. Its only my career. Its only the Internet.

Early the next morning, Granfather called me up at Junoir's place (where i was staying), having changed his small simian mind YET AGAIN.

He hollared and bellowed savagely that if I didnt come ovor to the female James Carvlle's house to get him, he woudnt kill HER, he woud kill ME.

Junior got on the extension line and heard Granpy scream bloodey murder and he colapsed on the couch weeping abbout the whole thing even thuogh it has nothin to do with his family. It is just that when Granfather screamms, even over the phone, it is the most awfull noise in the world. Besides this, Junior is always overly emotionol. In some ways, he is worse even than me.

So, imediatly I drove over there.

The female James Carvile lives in one of those third world-looking dirt road trailor parks a couple of counties over, where the trailers are extremly close togethor, and where theres always little dirty-faced kids who dont seem to have parents running arround who are conpletly nakad ecxept for these little t-shirts with juice stains on them. Dodging the dog crap and brokken glass, they weave in and out of the legs of allot of barechested Marlboro smokin guys with long sideburns wearin baseball caps with truck logos on them workin on cars which dont run no more. You get the idea of what it looks like. The only thing missing here is the danm film crew from COPS.

As i drove up there were a bunch of misorable lookin women hangin around a clustor of picnic tables under some trees drinkin beer and giving me a dirty look, with these beehive hairdos on there heads that apeared to pose a threat not only to ceiling fans but also low altitude aircraft, their sallow faces covored with thick pink makeup which I woud swear came out of somthin that looks like the nozzel of a Cheez-Wiz sprey can. One of them told me where I coud find the trailor of the Female James Carvill.

Like a specter, like an apparition, the frighteningly evil shower-cap-topped face of Granfather's diabolicolly satan-like girlfriend silently popped up at the screen window, eye level to me as I mounted the front steps, boring a hole thruogh me with her demonic beady eyes.

*"All Suspects Not Yet Proved Guiltey in a Court of Law"(TM)

Surely if the film crew from COPS did indeed show up, this was at least one persen for whom that anonymizing blue fuzzy dot they put over people's faces woud be a danm asthetic inprovement.

"I assume you are heah fo' to pick up your ole Granpap," she hissed at me thru the screen in a barely audibol, icy cold whispor.

The scene I found inside

The bastord's hag keeps her trailor very dark and it is decorrated extremeley creepy. There are heavey earthtones and she has wierd fake hanging plants covored with dust and the whole place smells like piss (allmost as bad as our place) and has these heavy dark green vinyl drapes and gold colored crushed velvet curtians with a fringe of fancy deely-bobs hanging off them, and a hiddeous Day-Glo orange shag rug. It looks like some sort of danm New orleans whorehouse circa 1970 all decked out for a location shoot of some sort of X-Ratad spoof of Love American Style.

Granfather was squatted in the middol of the floor in a daze. It apeared that he was just coming to from being knocked unconcious. Arround his neck was a cheap picture frame, the kind made from pressboard covored with woodgrain stickyback paper, and held togethor with staples. It also apearred that at one time this frame held an undammaged painting of Elvis Presley, machine-rendered in fluorescent flesh tones on black velvet, ecxept that now this peice of qualitty American art had been rent thruogh the center in a giant jagged rip.

All that frame framed now was just the bastord.

Leaning agianst the refrigorater as cool and as crisp as if she had spent the night inside of it, the female Carvill finaly spoke, sarcasticly, poisonously, casually tossing her shiny somwhat pointed chin toward Granps with contempt, hissing in her whispery bayou drawl as an unlit Virgina Slims danced on the corner of the most far-off remote egde of her lipless slitlike mouth,

"That scandalous pile o' manhood settin' thaya on the flo' is all whut remains o' mah most immediatly recent gentleman caller."

Her smooth dainty arm then swooped downword to strike an Ohio Blue Tip on the sandpapery surface of Granfather's rough boney unshaved cheek and as it blazed to life she touched the dancing yellow flame to the cigarete. It glowed. She stood motionless, dead motionless, as a stream of smoke from her hognose-cobra-like nostrils shot down fast and then rose up slow like a grey ghost to veil the silent fury of her unblinking silvery little evil pointy eyes which looked like the two blunt zinc spikes which remain on the front of an old radio in a small Southorn town that the control knobs fell off long ago.

"Yo' bidness is done heah young man, and so is mine," she snarled at me.

"Git this po' excuse fo' a man off mah trailer lot."

The Last Word

In this part of the country, having the Last Word in an argumment is the most inportant thing of all. As I hauled my semi-conscious forebear down the steps to put him in the car, Granfather was in no shape to say the Last word. The female James Carvill was the one who did, and hissed loudly and ceremoniously to the hoots and applause of a whole bunch of neighborrs who'd all clustored arround outside. The Last Word (to both of us) was:

"Git on out, you transmogrified hallucinations of Job and Jezebel!"

I reckonized the line from some torturrous old novel but I cant remembor which one. Yet I am pretey sure that the line was spoken by somone the author called 'the stranger' and it was to animals he was directing the phrase.

A Plea to my readers

This thing is killing me! If anyone out there can tell me where the abbove line appears in American Litorature, (about the transmogrofied Job and Jezebel), I will put your name in my next Walter Miller's Hompage update. Just write to me at and please name the author and the work. Thats how badley I want to know.

On the way home, slowly Granfather recovored from his dazed stupor.

A large red bump rose from his alredy lumpy, boil-covored head. Facing away from me with shame, his yellow reptilian eyes gazed out the car window as the bland landscape spun past. Oddley, the swelling bulge on his head was in the ecaxt shape of a perfect hexagon.

"BITCH DONE CLOCKED ME WITH A WRENCH SOCKET," said the bastord after a long, unconfortable silence.

I kindof felt bad for him.

I didnt know what to say. I told him I was sorrey he at least didnt get the "last word" in.



As a speciel treat I took the bastord to Sizzler in a shopping centor where he had been banned years ago. But I chanced it anyway on the hopes that parking lot security woudnt see us. Also, while purpocely putting a blind eye toward what surely will be more probloms with our plumbing systom, I alowed him to eat as many of those freid corn puffs he wanted from the Salad and Fixins bar. Sizzlor is the only place you can get them.

"I AIN'T NEVER BEEN SO DANM HUMILIATED IN ALL MY YEARS," he sputtered, spitting on the acrilyic salad bar sneeze guard, shuffling along on his feet becuase his diaper had dropped down to his ankles, and still crowned by the King, which hung arround his neck in strips of black velvet.


Another awkword moment of silence passed as he gentley dipped the ladle of orange nacho sauce into his soup bowl filled with soft ice cream, making a little crator on top that he filled with the meltad cheese. The man on line in front of us held his moulth and turned green. It coud of been becuase of what he was eating, how he looked, how he smelt or all three.

"DANM, I WILL MISS THET GAL" said Granfather.

I geuss if he even had a heart it woud be broken

But of cuorse we know he does not.