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The Humilliatingly LATE Update covering Aogust, September and Octobor 2000

Page 11 of 39

Like I said this was my day off dammit. Howevor that is not somthin I should be proud of. After all, when your life is as lousy as mine, time spent not at work is time sent with GRANFATHER.

On the way home from work I did somthing I never did. I stopped at a truckstop to try to go to the bathroom. YES, Number Two. It was houmilliiating. No, I coud not go. I was begining to get scared. I was not counting the days since I last went, but it was quite a long time. I had a horoble thought my guts might expload.

When I got home

The old basterd was in a particulorly bad mood when I came home. Part of it was from his nervousness about his Miracullously floating Metamucil Island world record falling into the glass of water, and part was just from him being a mean sonnoffobich.

Also I shoud add that Uncle Zeke was there as well, his large gangly frame crammed into a small TV chair, watching C-SPAN. He was back from visiting poor Uncle William in the hospitol. Uncle Will was close to death after Granfather stepped on his medicol hose, and there was no sence in Zeke keeping a death vigil on him.

The big white Ford van which belonged to the cryptozoologists was there also. Madison and Ripke were there, while Blankenship as you know was still recuperatting from Granfather's savage biting attack that I wrote abbout in my last update. Poor Blankenship. He spent allot of time a few years ago tryin to discovor new strains of flesh eating bacteria. He never counted on a whole 120-pound flesh eating basterd.

And as for Ripke

Ripke as you know just sits there all the time and drools. His brain was fried months ago from Exposure to Granfather Stress Rellated Disorder. Madison and Blankenship must feed and cloathe him. Howevor he gets to remain on the project which is funded by the University (as long as he teaches six credits a semmester, which he does), because he has tenure.

Last of all our poor pittiful neighbor, Junior was also there. Junoir was playin poker for toothpicks with Ripke on the ironing board. Junoir was thrilled cause hed won four of the last six games.

In Blankenships absence and as Ripke's brain's become a turnip, for all purposes, the three man team of criptos was realy down to just Madison, who sat working furiously at his laptop which sat on the kitchon counter. When I walked in Madison was also hollering on his cellphone at someone. Everyone seemed to be suprized when I walked in.

"WHUT THE HEYLE YOU DOING HOME, BWAH?" Granfather snapped at me when I walked in. Growling and angry he aproached me. Stomping toword me he looked like one of the pink demons in DOOM with the giant jaws heading right for you to bite your danm face off. Before I coud answor Granfather he grabbed me hard with his thumb and fourfinger thru my shirt on my nipple (my nipple!) and the mean abusive coot dragged me ovor to his room. He bared his fangs at me like a caged animol.


Granfather's printer is the most horrible peice of technology you want to lay your eyes on. It is a dot matrix, and inside there is crust, and blue fur and crumbs and outside dried food and tobbacco juice spattor.


Actualy, it woud print very very slowly, and then stop. "I forget with all this muck on it ," I said, "Is this thing an Epson?"

"IT'S AN EBSEN. AS IN BUDDY EBSEN. CAUSE THE DAGNAB THING MOVES SLOWER THAN BARNABY JONES!" he screammed. The cheap old basterd wont spend money to buy new printor ribbons, which sureley for this model they dont even make no more and insteadd he makes me sit in the yard every few weeks with a box of QTips and re-ink them on this ancient contraption with bottols of ammonia-based India ink. The doctors said the stains will nevor come off my hands.

I am pretty good at fiddoling with printers and I finaly got it working. I glanced at the old troll and said, "Granfather, I didnt know you were in the Airforce too!," thinking hed been only in the Army--(and was discharged dis-honorably, I might add.)

"MAH AIRE FORCE YEARS IS NONE OF YOUR BID-NESS!" he screamed at the top of his lungs with a cigarete in his moulth. "NOW, GIT THE HELL OUT OF HERE! SEND MADISON IN, I DON'T TRUST YOU, BWAH!"

As I turned to get Madison, Granfather grabbed my shirt and pulled me close. His disgousting burnt scaly fleshy hatchet nose allmost touched mine. "KEEP ZEKEY AWAY FROM MY MIRACLE METAMUCIL ISLAND. HE DON'T KNOW WE GOT A WORLD RECORD GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE.


I scampored fearfully out of the room to send in Madison, who seemed distracted, busy and pissed.

"I got both National Geographic and Smithsonian on the phone," Madison yelled, "And neithor of them can spare any budget to study that old monster. And now I have to help him with his printer?"

I repleid, "I thoght you got your funding from the University." Madison told me that they needed extra money to hire a mycologist, which is a speciel scientist who studies fungus.

"Specificaly, a paleo-mycologist," Madison explianed, with a look of sudden nausea on his face, "He's got somthin growing on his scrotum, that you don't wanna know..."

I interupted, "You're right: I dont wanna know."

"PRINT YOU SUMBITCH, PRINT!" Granps shrieked from the other room. Madison sprang up to help. Meanwhile, Uncle Zeke was spying somthing on the kitchon table. Granfather had clustored a bunch of bottles, mostly hot sauces around the Magicol Glass of Metamucil which still remained in the its initial spot at the center of the table.

Oh, crap, Zeke is nosing arround where I am supposed to keep him AWAY.

Uncle Zeke frowned and stared at it.

"Whut're all them spices thar for?" he grunted at me.

"Those are mine, Uncle Zeke," I stammored. Uncle Zeke picked up one of the bottols and began reading it. His slow dumb-as-a-mule eyes folowed the words on the lable as his lips silently moved as he read. Zeke shot me a secret glance. My heart started beating. Meanwhile, from inside Granfather's room, bloodcourdling screams emerged as the beast howled at Madison....Which emergency was more importent? I am faced with hard decisions like this every day.

I slowly sneaked into Granp's room. Sudenly the old basterd was quiet.


Madison just rolled his eyes. "Granfather," I said, Uncle Zeke is playin with the spices on the table. Hes about to discovor your magical Metamucil!"

Granfather's eyes sprang open in shock and terror, large and saucerlike, just like those of a scrawney terrified mammal, like a tiny anxious primate, a cornered pygmy marmoset parralized by fright as he is coght by suprise with a photoggrapher's flashbulb in his face on a dark still night in the inky rainforest of Madagascar clinging to a branch in the middle of his regular, routine and until now secret autoerrotic self-stimmulative manipullations.

"DANM!" he shreiked in a whisper. The old bastard leapt out of the room and down the hall. He aproached Zeke from behind, who half expected a vilent attack. But Granfather insted was kind and cordial.

"MAH DEAR ELDER BROTHER," he preened in fake gracious sweetness. When Granfather is sweet it is not a honey or sincear type of sugar sweetness. It is more like the sugary fraud of rancid cough syrup, pooled and dried for a week on the floor of some abbandoned stinking crack house where it was spilled by acident, though remains alive with the writhing, twitching world of a thousand angry insects trapped by its deadly mucky sticky surface.


Zeke shot him a wall-eyed skepticol glance. Usualy this glance of Zeke's, when met by the nervous evil untrustworthey glare of Granfather ends in a horroble sudden eruption of brickbats and fisticuffs.

I braced myself for an attack