Walter Miller's Homepage

Will code for food.

April 1998 Update

Page 5 of 8

The fun times all ended qiuckly when withuot warning Granfather sudenly made a giant fart and they had to evacaute the restuarant. It was so bad that it set off the sprinkoler system, exploaded a few windows, and caused the tapes in those small vintage juke boxes they have at each table to sqeuak loudley, and actualy run the Clint Black and Vince Gill songs backwords. In a mattor of seconds the only peoplle left in the place were me and him. I coudnt see him thru the slowly settling poisionous yellow brown cloud, but i did hear him muttor somthing like, "all smoke no substence" meaning that he sure can fart all right, only he's gone 2 weeks withuot having gone to the bathroom.

Right after this, I wheeled the old bastord outside, where I said goodbye to Cathyann, her sister, Junior and the two counselors, who, along with all the other restuarant patrons were all sitting on the sidewalk trying to recupperate from the gassy onslought as they reeled from toxic inhallation of the noxious stench and took deep gasping breaths of fresh air to cleanze out there seared and dammaged lungs. With no shame the old monster had a coupel of stolen menus on his lap and also his finger up his nose to the third knuckol in full view of the whole crowd as i wheeled past. Then I drove the old bastord home.


In anticipattion of comitting acts of creulty agianst his own brothers, during the next few hours back in the trailer Granfather had me shine up the few of his colectibles which my Uncle Zeke is jealous of. Yes not all the items in the old basterd's stash are wourthless crap or countorfit frauds.

There are indeed a few, (a very, very few) 'true' authenntic colectible items of value sprinkoled within the massive volume of aquisitions which are spread haphazordly arround and within the dozens of rickety buildings here at our dusty filthey dog-doo bespeckaled junkyard we call home.

Here is a story which describbes Granfather in a nutshell:

There is a photo in our livving room that was taken arround 1960 in Bermuda. My dad swears its the only photoe of Granfather smiling. Not only that, its the only time he ever TRUELY smiled in his whole life (and in the picture he looks evil). Granfather is holding a small bumper atachment from a car which is made of grey pot metal and is shaped like a crown. With him in the pitcure is a handsome man and an ugly woman. They are the Duk and Dutchess of Windsor. As you know, the Duke was Govenor of Bermuda. The two of them were in a restaurant when Grandfather was cought by a Bobbie stealing the ornament off the royal car which was parked outside. Granfather was coght red handed viggorously bending it back and forth to break the metol stem atached to the car bumpor that the crown was screwed to. They were going to arrest him but he begged the Duke to pardon him. The Duke felt sorry for the pitiful basterd so he let him off the hook. Right aftor the duke said to the Bobbie, "OK LET THE CHAP GO," Granfather strongly hinted to the Dutchess that he wanted to keep the thing as a souveneir. What could she say? Of course the answor was YES. Finally the old bastord had the balls to ask them to pose for a picture in front of the car undor a big palm tree. The crown atachment is now frammed in a double mat with the photo, and it has the signaturs of the Duke and Dutchess.

Thats granfather for you.

It was this sortof behhavoir, (along with passing bad checks and fraudoulent items to fellow collectors) that got his ass throwed out of that Secret Society that my Uncles belong to.

Granfather barked at me to polish up the glass on the frame holding his crown atachment and photo. This item is a real stickling point for Uncle Zeke for 2 reasons: One, is that the old bastord is a conniving stealer, and two: Zeke desperatly wishes that he owned the danm thing himself. For years while I was growing up, Uncle Zeke, (out of jealousey I presume), told me that the photo in our living room was realy a picture of the duke's brother, King George VI and his sister-in-Law on a trip to Gibralter posing for a shot infront of a palm tree, and instead of it being Granfather in the picture with them it is one of the local tame Barbary apes which are native to Gibraltor that sombody dressed in clothes.

More about this crown atachment

Stolon stuff is alwayes shunned for aquisition among honest colectors. But since the homely but bennevolent Dutchess agreed to let Granfather keep it, then it is not considored stolen propertey. Over the years, othor colectors of such items somtimes have dropped by to look at it, or perhapps make a trade or cash offor. No one ever got past Granfather's first line of defense arround our property, the ring of 55-gallon drums about a half-mile in from the road. Those who have escaped with there lives have suffored buckshot in their automobiles or in there asses as they ran away in terror.

Meanwhile Granfather has had it apraised many times, and most dealers think its worth, (without the auttographs) only between $40 and 75 bucks. Yet Granfather and his brother believe its priceless.

After I shined up the frame and the glass, I turned behind myeself to see the old human monstrossity sittin there in front of the TV with the upturned plastic bottol of Windex in his lips as sloshing sky blue waves of soapy liqiud gurgoled down into his mouth in copious bubbly swills.

"GUS IS RIGHT!" Granfather excliamed. "IT DOES TASTE LIKE ZIMA!"

Gus is a freind of ours who lives in Virginnia. And i think what he realy said was that Zima tasted like Windex, not the othor way around.

Minuts later, Uncle Zeke's 1963 silvery green Pontiac Cattalina cruised into the yard at the very end of its cross-country trip from the East Coast at a top speed which i am sure did not exceed 35 miles an hour at any time, and slowly came to a rolling stop just 3 inches from the side of the trailor.

I dont know why he allways parks so close to the danm house. Uncle Zeke also has a '97 Pontiac at home, but he ofton saves this old Catalina for long trips. It is a beutiful car, with not one scracth and also a perfect interior, and only, like, 11,000 miles on it.

Granfather, who still had a moulthfull of Windex splooshing around in his reptilian gullet quickly wheeled over to the living room window and spat the blue stream of it thru the screen which arched in the air to land on the hot hood of the car with a wet sizzoling splash.

Instantly the two men started hollering at each othor and beffore I coud even say "Hello" to Zeke he had jumped out of the car brandishing this giant wood ax handol sayin he was gonna beat the crap out of Granfather, and I was struggling in the clay dust holding my big strong elderly uncle arround the waist while the old yellow bastord was up inside the trailer hollering thru the screen that it was "only Windex", and he really did it as a favor to "HELP WARSH THEM TEXAS BUGS OFF YER CAR, YOU DANM FOOL."

In anticipattion of his brother's arrival Granfather had taken an old hand colored postcard commemmorating the 1937 Brittish Royol Coronation and afixed it with a rubber band across the face of that plastic owl on his head. Then he started talking in that afected English accent. Granfather did not once mentoin the pot metal crown attachment by name, but he was dropping enuogh hints about it as to rub Zeke's face in it.

"Yer nothin' but a danmed Kleptomaniac," said Uncle Zeke, using the absolutly biggest word Ive ever heard him use in my life. Then Granfather answored him, "YEH, BUT THE ONE GOOD THING ABOUT BEIN' A KLEPTO, IS YOU KIN ALWAYS TAKE SOMTHIN' FOR IT!" and he imediatly exploded into that awful cackling Tales Of The Crypt lauagh Uncle Zeke hates so much. The two men started spitting at each othor like a couple of four year olds. Once agian i had to break them up. The vituperous hatred between these brothors is absolutly poisonous. And peoplle wondor why I am ashamed of my family.

They finaly calm down and stop fighting