I cant believe I wrote the WHOOOLE thing.
Page 3 of 5
One of the hay sheds is 2 storeis tall and Granfather woud force us to get on this extremly old dryed out rickety splintory laddor to clean the gutters.
"LEMME HOLD THE LADDOR STEADY," he woud say as we climbed up. The joke was on us, cause the guttors never had nothin inside them at all exept some of those tiny white crumbs that look like farina which rolled off from the tar shingols on the roof, and mabye some ocasional straw or birdnests. But still he made us go up there.
Once we got to the top he woud shake the laddor, just a little at first but then more violant, and say, "WHOA, SHE'S GITTIN' JIGGLY!", or else, "OOH! A RARE TEXAS EARTHQUAKE!", and even once, "Y'HEAR THET, BWAH? ONE O'THE COWS DONE FARTED!"
Then while still shaikin the laddor with one hand the saddistic old coot woud get the busted head off a coal shovel in his othor hand and leaning way back fling up peices of dogcrap at us.
He woud scream, "GO-O-O-OAL!!!, just like the sports anouncor on the Spanish station. (To this day I cannot look at Jai Alai).
Granfather's skinny arms are very strong and on more than one ocasion as I tremboled in fear there at the top of the spindly thrashing laddor I distinkly recall looking straight downword as to steady myself only to see a fast approaching turd grow bigger and bigger as it flew up to splattor in my face. You coudnt wipe it off or else youd fall. Then he woud laugh his skinny ass off. It is a mirracle we never fell anyway.
Then, afterword, while my brother and I woud sit there whimporing at the kitchon table eatin supper, Granfather woud holler in from the othor room while Three's Company was on TV to scream, "I DONE WHUT I DONE DID BACK THAR TO MAKE YOU A MAN!"
Mean, cruel saddistic old basterd.
This guttor-cleaning abuse went on until I was about 9, till my brothor was 11, and till Junior was atleast 43.
By the time we arived at the restorant after hashing over bad memmories, no one was even hungrey, much less in the mood to "celebrate Granfather's life." In fact we were all on guard sort of bracing ourselfs for some sort of basterd-rellated prank. My brother even had took the $50 bill Granps gave us to the bank to see if it wasnt a phony. (It wasnt.)
The restauront is in this dark, dimly-lit old house in the downtown of a very small town with lacey curtians and candles that is suposed to be a fancy place (and mabye it was once years ago) but today it just gives the apearance of being past its best days.
Theres these small tables with furry (I swear) tablecloths. You sit in these unconfortable straw Mortisha Addams Peacock chairs that make squeezy noises when you sit in them, a soundtrack of Zamfir the Pan Flute Master worbling in the backround and a pervasive musty, pissy smell that sticks to your clothes aftor you leave, all of which all adds up to a uniqeu dining expereince. I think its called the Bongwater Inn or Burpwood Arms or somthin like that.
Anyway we didnt have a good time. When you first walk in there is a giant four foot high repproduction Renassance statue of one of those fat nakid Belgien children sittin on a turtle urinating into a giant clamshell. Mabye youve seen this statue I am talkin about in a book, or else if you ever went to Eurrope. Exept this one has this green crusty calcified croustation around the tip of the weener where the water comes out, ovbiously because they are running hard water thru the danm thing. Plus theres greenish white furry crystols running up the seams of the whole danm stateu and syrupy blue dribbles around its eyes. Real appettizing thing to have sittin there before havin a fancy supper. We had all been bracing ourselfs for what kind of awfull diabollical trick Granfather had in store for us....Why this restuarant? Why here? Why now? The old basterd is a prankstor and a trickster (in adition to a stinkster) and so we were all on guard.
The waiter insisted on callin himself a "Waitron" which is a non-sexist term for a waitor or a waitress. What the hell is wrong with these peoplle.
Then, just as soon as we open up our menus to The Specials of the Day he props up on the table this big blackbord with neon writing on it. He tells us that these are the "Speceils of the Day" but they are the same Speceils listed in the menu. Then the Waitron starts reading them to us off the menu.
My brothor allways has to be a wiseass and so he asks, "If you dont like 'waiter' or 'waitress', why don't you call yourself a 'server' like they do in Denny's?"
The guy gave him some sort of long, canned answor about how "Server" somhow sugested subservience or servitude.
"Yeah, yeah, very interresting," my brothor said, "Now move your ass and get me a friggin beer willya?"
Right aftor I ordered it my stomoch got all queazy at the thought of it. Think about what sausage realy truly is, after all. First, (in my humbol opinion) sausege looks like poo. This is not a coinsidence, as you may think. Sausege looks like poo because it is molded and stored in a peice of intestine. This is the same thing that molds and stores animal crap. Therefour, sausage inhabits the same parrameters that once held somthing the lamb or pig crapped out. If your microwave had a Time Travel setting on it, this is what you woud find inside the sausage. Not to mention that every sausege, all sausege, at one point, at one end, is connected to an animol's ass.