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As shucks. If we can't make fun of ourselves...we might as well make fun of Granfather.

The Humilliatingly LATE Update covering Aogust, September and Octobor 2000

Page 37 of 39

The missing peice that comprised the Architect of the Great Soceity's earlobe was as small as a corn kernal. Granfather forced Junior to suck it off the bottem of the glass with a plastic pop straw. Then Granfather dried it on a papper towel and reattached it. Thats why Junior got the beating.

Granfather gibbered loudley into the phone, "I'LL TELL ALL Y'ALL LIMEYS WHUT."


We are informed of more bad news: Yes The Coronor arrives again

While the old basterd was on the phone with the British, I heard a car pull up to our trailor. Granfather was gratefull for these Brits becuase they were going to ask the Guiness World Reccord people to come and authenticate Granfather's Metamucil acheevement. But even still when he saw the dark looming figure of the Coronor at the door he barked in the phone, "I'LL CALL Y'ALL LOSERS TOMMOROW," and hung up.

"WHO'S DAID? WHO'S DAID?" he yapped and hopped with joy.

The coronor explianed that no one was dead--yet--he had just come cause he left his hat here last time he was over... But he also said that his friend at the hospital told him over the scanner that someone woud be declared dead soon -- posibly within the hour.

"I think William will pass before you can get to the hospitol," the Coronor said to me somborly. "You'd better go straite to the Funeral Home, where your brother Spike has alredy reserved facilities."

Granfather closed his eyes, threw his head back, opened his Venus Flytrap of a mouth and reeled and staggored in silent extacy.

When the corroner left Granfather dropped to his knees. I was crying, and Junior was crying too. Granfather apeared to also be crying, and it sounded allot like Junior's cry. I coud not tell if he was crying or laughin.

"WILL Y'ALL EXCUSE ME WHILE I DRESS FOR THE OCCASION?" he asked politely, then disapeared into his smelly bedroom.

The phone rings

It is Stu, squealling in delight. "Walter, its a miracle! Cathyann's been found...ALIVE! --Tilde had a vision that she was inside the food freezer."

This certainly was good news. I was so full of emotion I creid more. Stu told me that she still had a long way to go beffore she was better. But, aparantly, acording to Stu, there was so much Zima in her system, that it seeped into her bloodstream and kept her veins from freezing.

"Her alcohol had two percent blood--or somthing like that" said Stu excitedly, "And she lived off the nutreints in her insulative layor of blubber..." I told him to stop givin me the details cause I felt like I was goin to throw up.

"Walt, now get this: The cops are looking for somone," he said.


"They said there was a witness. Or a perpetrator: Cathyann might have been, you know, asaulted...OK, if youre gonna throw up, I better not tell you.

I thoght I was going to faint. My legs shook. My mind raced. Then, sudenly, my nose burned. Granfather had agian entered the room.The old basterd's bedroom door swung open. I dropped the phone and allmost colapsed in horror

Do You Really Want To Hu-UUUUrt Me

Granfather was dressed exactley like '80s pop icon Boy George. He was wearin a wide brimmed girlish Madeline hat, apeared to have his forehead shaved, and had alot of strings of dark long hair hanging down. The thick eyemakeup and extremely heavy layer of lead white foundation was perfect. Exept the way the opaque white paint was on his face with all the danm boils and bumps he looked like a the surfece of a stucco popcorn ceiling. In his gnarley fist he held a photo of Boy George in the same get up.

"DO I LOOK LIKE HIM?" Granps asked. I said to him, "What the HELL is this all about."

Granfather explianed that years before, he went to visit his brothors on the East Coast. They were channol surfing, and stumbolled upon MTV which was very new in those days. They paused on a video of Boy George in this getup and for the first time in his life, Granfather saw the normolly subdewed Uncle William explode in disapprovol at the downslide of morallitty in our culture. Or in this case, culture Club. Granfather, who loves to pick fights, taunted Will and the two tumbolled onto the floor in fisticuffs. Uncle Will lost a pinkey finger in the atack and also had to get rabies shots.

Later, as the evil monster old basterd was sentenced to 90 days in jail for Assault, Granfather rose in the courtroom, pointed across the chambor with one hand, and pointed to the photo on his Boy George T shirt that he wore to the sentancing with the othor, and loudley swore to Uncle Will, that, as God was his witness, he woud dance and prance and pirroutte on his grave while the earth was still fresh dressed exactley like the fellow in the video who so enraged him.


We get to the Funerol Parlor

Junior stayed behind to guard the Magicol Metamucil Island. Representatives from the Mexican cable TV parranomal phennomona show, "Esta Milagro!" were expected back at any time. Suposedly they agreed to lobby the Guiness World Record people as well.

At the funerol parlor, it was a sad scene. My Dad and stepmom had flown in from San Jose. Just arriving from the hospitol along with the hearse was Spike and Darlene and also two and a halfyear old Little Spike, who greeted me in the lilting Jamaican acent of his caretakor, "Dat hospital place back dere smell mighty like piss."

Uncle Will layed in the coffin. Uncle Zeke, I was told contineud to cling to life in intensive care, and woud be gone before midnight.

I stood at the egde of the casket and peered at Uncle William, who for reasens beyond me had requested an open coffin. Have you evor heard people say at funerols, "He looks good!" Well, no one said that here. He looked like crap.

We were all cryin queietley, but one person was weepin very loud: Tilde. She was allmost histerical with agony. The big question everyone whispored was not, "What time did he die?" instead it was, "Who the hell told Tilde?" She seemed to be enjoying herself in this feast of pity.

Soon I started cryin allot too.

It was one part greif, and one part fear over the sherrifs and FBI suddenly showing up, and my having to go to jail for Atempted Murder in the Acidental though Criminally Negligent Almost-Homicide of Cathyann.

Stu was there as well, and I was glad. He sidled up to me, mumbled some comforting words of condollance, and then whispored, "Walt, I woud do anything to have you come back to work with us."

I thoght it was a nice gesture, but somthing about the way he said it opened up the raw wound he gave me the other day on the plane. When he actualy suggested that I stay being a Rent-A-Temp-Gal(tm) at Cyberblop? (Yeah right. No freakin WAY.)

I thought abbout it for a minute and concluded that Stu realy didnt mean no harm in saying what he just did. But it sure as hell was a poor choice of words

As coud be expected, the day was marred by awful posturring and the outrageuous pefformance of GUESS WHO.

Granfather behaves shockingly inapropriate considering the sad circoumstances.

Inaproppriate, tacktless basterd.