Abort? Retry? Ignore? Fail? Hell, we've tried it all.
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The guy who owns the funerol parlor made a remark about how the old basterd was dressed, saying it was not apropriate. Granfather snapped at him, "MAH BROTHER WUZ A NINETY-ENTH DEGREE MASON, AND HE DESERVES I DRESS LIKE THIS. NOW GIT THE HELL AWAY FROM ME. "
Uncle Will was indeed slathored up allot. The sunken hollowness of his face, weathered and gouged all over with deep voids apeared to have been spackled in and smoothed out with copious ammounts of orangy flesh -colored mortician's clay.
"DAY-UMM," the old basterd mused, raking his fingers across Will's face as he lay prone in the casket, causing gullies of clay on my Uncle's lifeless cheek," I GUESS HAVING ONE WEEK TO LIVE FER TEN YEARS TAKES A LOT OUT OF YOU.
"THAR'S MORE ORANGE CLAY ON WILLY'S FACE THAN A TENNIS COURT."
I said to him, "Granfather stop it!" But he did not. Insted the old basterd scooped up a mass of the clay in a handfull and smeared it on his own face.
"THIS IS A BIG ASS LOT OF CLAY. I'D BET IF I KEEP DIGGING, I'LL FIND TAMMY FAYE BAKKER UNDER HERE.
..."AND THEN A FEW INCHES UNDER HER, PROBLY JIMMY HOFFA."
By this time my dad came ovor and put his arm around Granfather.
"Thats enough, Grampy," he said, "Come and sit down." Even thogh the old basterd is his father, Dad calls him 'Grampy' just like everyone else.
But the old basterd wasnt finished yet. He pushed Dad aside, and then reached over and painfully tore Dad's fake left eyebrow off. Dad screammed in pain. My early readers will remembor one of my 1997 updates where I wrote about how Dad lost one of his eyebrouws in an acident. The acident happened when Granfather kicked a lighted cigarete behind himself in our kitchen once and farted just as the flame flew past his ass. Dad was standing 20 feet away but even still the flareup that resulted burned off Dad's eyebrow and now he has to wear a fake adhesive one in its place.
Granfather gleefully waved the fake eyebrow arround the funerol parlor room like a trophy. Next, the old basterd squatted down, and peering into one of the shiny brass handle plates of the casket as a mirror, glopped the Velveeta-orange mortician's clay onto his nose and chin, then mashed the fake eyebrow on his uppor lip like a moustache.
"LOOKY HERE. DON'T I LOOK LIKE THAT TONY CLIFTON FELLER THAT ANDY KAUFMAN USED TO DO?"
Sudenly the big doubel doors of the funeral parlor swung open, and just like in some awful badly acted overly dramattic amateur local community theator production of a Southern disfunctionnol family scene right out out of Faulkner, Junior bursted in, still wearing his greasy overalls, tripped, staggored, and finally fell on his big knees, sliding right over to us. He stopped right in front of the old whitefaced basterd.
"Grampy!" He wept and blubbored, "They wont take yer world record! You been squalidated! I mean, disquallified!
"And its all mah fault!," Junior shreiked, "ITS ALL MAH FAULT! I'm so sorry!...Oh, Walter, this here package done come for you and I signed fer it..."
Junior tossed a package at me, that I coud see he already opened. He missed, and flying out of it was that heavy three hole puncher that I FedEx'ed to myself. It hit Granfather right in the face with a loud clank, and then, an instant lator, and with a smear of Boy George paint on it, landed surely with a sharp pain right on the old basterd's foot with a clattor.
Granfather lifted the heavy steel hole puncher and raised it ovor his head, intending to crush Junior's head like a grape.
Just then Uncle Will leaped out of the coffin. Yes, Uncle Will. You read that right. Yes I was suprised. Remembor, I did not yet say that he had been "declared dead." It turns out he was (at least not at this moment) ever yet dead.
A trail of usual medical-looking hoses and wires and such were atached to his chest, and they sort of restrained him, but even still Uncle William was able to jump out of the box and onto the old basterd's head.
Then sudenly from undeneath the heavilly flowered bier on which the casket rested, Uncle Zeke slowley clammored out and strouggling awkwordky like an elderly tom cat all stiff from ten hours sleep, jerkilly raised himself up to a half standing stoop. He was moving slow enough for Granfather to outmanouver and attack, but Granfather was quite paralyzed with shock and suprise. The hole punch fell out of his hands. The old basterd wheeled around and tried to absorb into his small salamander-sized brain the fact that BOTH his brothers were still alive.
There was a medical-looking hose coming from Uncle Zeke too, but this one was in his hand. I coud not, howevor, see where the other end of the hose led.
Uncle Zeke, all bruised and red and purple from bein crushed by Tilde's car pitched forward, and as he did, little Uncle Will, still clawing and clinging to Granp's head like a baby Capuchin monkey stuck on his momma with with Sepparation Anxeity, took from the breast pocket of the little ratty $40 suit jacket my family just boght cause he didnt have no nice clothes to get buried in, a sharp straight razor. The kind that old men years ago used to shave with. (In my familly they still do).