OK, I admit it, I'm a has-been...But what is it I has been?
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When we last left you in my pryor update, (which, I am goingto take a wild guess that you just finnished reading), Granfather was filling with gas and about to exploade. (If you just happan to be a new reader who tuning in, my abusive Granfather got himself atacked a few weeks back by his two older brothors who hate his danm slimy guts, and who have forcibley filled his danm slimy guts asswise first with a half ton of low quallity bathroom tile grout which had been inpregnated with living baker's yeast. Yes i know it sounds odd but it all makes sence. Sort of. Please read the pryor updates for more backround)
OK enuogh of that crap, now for the Update:First off, beffore we get into this update, let me just say one thing: Yes I know it was trite and lame to once more end with a Granfather-rellated cliffhanger. I promise you that the cliffhangor with which this update you are now reading ends, will be much more interresting. Interestting in its own way, perhapps, deppending on how you veiw such things. (If you even can veiw such things at all: AND RIGHT NOW I CANT!!)
OK thats a hint. As you get to the end of this updatte (and please try to resist spoilling it for yourself) you will know what I am talkin about.
As Madison peirced the scraggly thorax an acrid mustard gas smell filled the room and he creid out to Ripke, "Light!"
The othor scienttist positioned a bunsen burner flint right by the needle and made a spark. All at once fire speuewed from the wound in a giant fiery plume. Granfather's chest colappsed down to size as Madison explianed to us that he had to release the methaine gas built up in the basterd.
"Put a fireproof shunt in there, and for Godsake, keep it lit!" Madisen hollared.
It began by lookin like one of those giant Kuwaiti oil wells burnin out of controle at the end of the Golf War. But soon it taipered off into a bunsen burner, or even pilot light size
All at once beffore our eyes the giant bloated leatherey sphere that was Granfather's abdomin slowly sank down to its wrinkly, normal size...
My brothor called his wife in L.A. on his cellphone, cursing and upset. The two of them must of got in a fight because they bolth started screamin at each other, but this was an understandible responce, considering the grief of their loss -- their shocking suddon loss of a Granfather-free future. I called Dad up in northorn California, and my mom got on the extension phone. The two of them seemed subdewed at the news and treid to conceal there disapointment. Junior meanwhile was on the phone in my room calling up the switchboard of one of the companies owned by Granfather's girlfreind, the virtuol female spittin image version of Ross Perot.
"Git me the Female Version of Ross Perot on the phone!" he hollared. I had to say to him, "Junoir, that is our name for her; they will not know who that is.
To our supprize the person on the othor end knew ecaxtly who we were askin about.
"Grampy ain't daid?" she snapped.
"Lordy. Then he must be hurtin' like a sumbitch. Tell the old crow I'll be raght over tomorrow in muh pink Caddy."
She too sounded somwhat disapointed. The tiny headed huge eared evil litle love interest of Granfather had high hopes that her Grout-With-Yeast(TM) invention woud of become a marketing oportunity to varrious Third World tyrants as the next great advance in chemicol warfare. (But just exactley how the militery was suposed to get close enough to adminnister the stuff up the enemy's ass was still being worked out).
So me, Junoir, my brother and the three sceintists spent the next hour gentley tipping and carrying both him -- and the 55-gallon drum which was full of the now rock-hard yeast-with-grout which was atached to and within him -- up on a number of dolleys and hand trucks. The whole time he was shreiking, "I WANT SOME O'THEM SPICY WINGS! WHAR'S MUH WHANGS!"
But Blankenship kept tellin him, "Nay, you cannah have no wings! Y'ell parse 'em through yer gizzard like a starved goose!
"Y'ill parse 'em like the wind!"
Of cuorse this didnt stop the old monster from howling. He even how started to make these horroble cackly chicken sounds. Our own chickons in the yard startin to run arround making fearful chirps and look very nervuos. They probly thohgt from the sight and sound of Gramp that theyre eithor gonna get ate, or else woud have to be forced to mate with some sort of giant demented rooster.
I loudley complained and Granfather said that I was a "overly sensitive fairy," both phisically and emotionnaly. He had stopped luaghing now and was just being mean. Then he sudenly turned the flame onto Junoir insted, for no reasen at all othor than cruel sadistic mallice. Poor Junoir sprang away from it and tumboled down the stairs and landed his fat bearded face into a pile of some unusualy dark colored and unusualy (for arround here at least) healthy looking dog crap Ive noticed arround the yard lately. (Posibble explanation: It isnt from one of our dogs, but from a visiting stray...Well anyway that part of the story isnt inportant now).