Finaly: Something to do on the internet.
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They were all from Cathyann. I coud not believe it. She had an internal lan ID called "Lunchlady_1" and this in itself sort of pissed me off, being that it took mea danm month to get a network ID here and I am a danm employee. All of the emails were what you call friendly spam -- you know what I am talking about. Here are some of the subject lines:
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: A thought to brighten your day
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: You know you're a Redneck when...
[Fwd]: Joke of the day Thursday...
[Fwd]: Joke of the day Friday...
[Fwd]: Joke of the day Saturday...
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: VIRUS ALERT!!!
[Fwd]: Funny Picture! (378,675 MB)
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: [Fwd]: You know you're a Baby Boomer When...
[Fwd]: PASS THIS HAPPY WISH TO 100 PEOPLE!!!
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: Free Disney Vacation, plus $1,000! This is LEGIT!
[Fwd]: Sick brain-tumor child needs your business cards!
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: You know you're horny when...
[Fwd]: [Fwd]: Dan Quayle Jokes
Dan Qualye jokes for Godsake. This is the only one I looked at. I remember readin this one off a dot matrix printout 12 years ago back when my dad was on Prodigy for Godsake.
Also Cathyann marked every one of them as Urgent Priority Status.
At first I planned to write a nasty flame to the County Clerk and tell him to stop hounding me. I decided insted to just print a copy of his affidavid, and think about doing it later.
Always amazing, I thoght, that people with former lives are always beutiful princesses, or warlords who knew famous people. No one is ever, like, a chariot attendent, or some toothless working class ditchdigging stiff. By the time we got to part about how I chopped her poor old danm sweet childhood nanny's head off right in front of her and tossed it down the well, thereby polluting the palace water supply I got up and walked out.
Of course i knew who it was from. The Psyhco Biker chick.
"Whoa that sucks," said Stu, wolfing two soft tacos at the same time in his moulth.
"I thought I had it bad. Acording to her in 1890 I lived on her farm in Nebraska. And she's still pissed I didnt win her a blue ribbon at the state fair."
Tilde soon arrived with her tray piled high with her fifty pounds of salad (cause she is on a diet) with a gallon of gluey cheese dressing on it. Of course as soon as Cathyann noticed the three of us sitting there, she vaulted over the counter squashing a carrot cake display with her giant ass and barroled across the cafeterea to where we sat to join us.
"Looky whose here!," she howled, "It's the Seinfeld crew! BWAHAHAHAHA!"
I decided I shoud not be so judgementol of Cathyann. If she wanted to hang out with us, that was fine. But I did tell her that she shoudnt spam people with useless emails. I realize she's only been on the Internet a month, and allot of "newbies" like her have to be corrected. Or else they piss people off.
"Waal, that's whar I disagree with you, Walter," Cathyann blared out loud--ovbiously having been drinking again. In fact she was drinking and burping the whole time right there, taking big swigs out of this plastic cooler mug.
"Mah e-mails ain't doing no harm," said Cathyann. "They just bring a little sunshine to everyone's day."
I rolled my eyes and collapsed my head in my hands. She was NOT bringin sunshine to no one. I opened my mouth to answer her, but Stu stopped me, as he nudged me with his piggish little hoof.
"Forget it," Stu whispored. But Cathyann woud not forget it. She declaired, (rather loudly too), that I was "jealous" that in just one month of being wired, she had more people on her "Buddy lists" than me.
I said, "Cathyann, All those spams are a pain in the ass."
She retorted, "If they wuz, folks woud complain."
I said, "There not complaining cause their bein POLITE."
She looked at me sort of snotty, put her hand on the hip of this floral muu-muu sort of thing she was wearin, and swaggering slightly said very loudly, "Waal, YOU sure AIN'T bein polite, cause YOU'RE complaining NOW...BWAHAHAHAHA!
Tilde broke the tension by askin Cathyann what she drinking. She told us that she was real thirsty being that she had some weird spicy wine with her lunch.
"It were just sittin' thar in the fridge, and you know how hot its been. Me and momma done split a bottle, and then got more thirsty, so we split a second and a third."
Stu said, "That's cooking wine! Its loaded with salt!"
Cathyann said, "Waal, no wonder. All that salt, no wonder me and momma aint peed all day today. BWAHAHAHAHA!"
That night, when I arived home, the only thing parked there was the white Ford research van of Madison, Ripke and Blankenship. A loud drilling sound came from the inside of the trailer, as did wafting out a burning, stinking stench.
I coud not believe what I saw. Granfather was in his regulor position of sitting in front of the TV set. Blankenship was standing over the appalling ecosystem of a scalp, and with both hands in two pairs of heavy rubber gloves, holding steady the old basterd's skinny simian narrow-as-a-one liter-bottle-of-pop-sized head. Madison, who is the strongest of the three leaned over Granfather, and was pushing with his full weight straigt and perpindiculor into the top of Granp's skull, a 3/8 inch drill bit.
"MOVE YO' ASS OUT THE WAY, AH CAIN'T SEE KATHIE LEE!," the old basterd shreiked, imploring Blankenship to clear his view of the TV set. I lunged foward to stop them from drilling in his head. Madison stopped the drill and grabbed my arm.
"Chill, Walter!," said Madison, "I'm just cleaning out the owl holes!"
I had forgotten about these holes. Granfather has two four inch deep vertical holes which were machine-press-drilled on eithor side of his head which go strait down into his skull, completely missing the brain on either side; (not hard to do, considoring the tiny meagor size of the old basterd's brain.)
What the holes are for: In springtime Granfather has this terible habit of crawling on his belly on the grassy patch by the pecan tree in our yard, and stalking and eating small birds and animals. Like a skilled hungry viper, Granfather attacks field mice, bats, snakes and even scorpions. Once he even sat there wiggling his tounge and caught a big black magpie who thoght the old basterd's forked reptile tongue was some sort of big purple two headed worm. As I have said many times, it is not a man: It is an animal.
The owl holes on the ghastly geezer's head were drilled a number of years ago; have you evor seen those big hard plastic Great Horned Owls that they sell in Home Depot that you put in your garden and lawn to keep away mice? Some of them have these big zinc spikes, and the holes in Granps head were drilled to acomodate a 16 inch tall owl, used as a small critter scarecrow in a perfect fit.
The only problem is that the owl no longer exists. Granfather's nasty farts have reduced it to a mass of meltad plastic. It is back in one of the sheds cause Granfather as you know canot ever throw anything away.
It looks like a danm 3-D Salvatore Dali painting of an owl in Hell.
"These damn holes in his head are filled with muck, fungus, algae and lichens," said Madison, withdrawing the drill aftor another heavy, foulsmelling dig.
"Ach!," said Blankenship, "Take a gander at that Brazilian stinkhorn fungus I told ye about!
"Tis-a-growing before me bluddy eyes!"
I said to him NO THANKS. Next, the other hole was cleaned. The hammerdrill whined and wailed angrily: Whirrrrr-RATATATATAT!
Spiralling up out of the hole and rolling off his skull were curly shards of each layer.