Bigger. Not better.
Page 12 of 26
Starting from the top: There is his awful hair, and matted root system, which as Ive said before resembles that "no man's land" of stringy pulp which surrounds the large centor pit of an overripe mango; that place where you ask yorself: Where does the fruit end, and the pit begin? Who the hell knows. Here you find all the nooks and crannies that hold standing water, which in turn providdes a breeding ground for mosquitoes.
Next, there is a peanut brittol-like layer, which consists of at least an inch thick of splintory waxy crust. It makes a loud sound when you hit it with the drill. "TURN UP THE DAGNAB TV!", Granfather usualy screams when we get to this loud, coruggated stratum.
After this, you reach a full layer of slime. If you ever pluck a reed from a polluted swamp you are familor with that slippery blackish jelly that grows on it. Which is sort of like wet mildew exept it smells like crap. This stuff sloshes arround not just Granp's head, but whole body beneath his skin.
And below that is a layor of corky, cactusy spongy matter, bizzarely the identical consistancy of a Rice Krispy marsmallow treat. Theres allot of holes in it, but less so the deeper you go. Sphagnum moss spores and odd worms and beetles live here; and even though you are well below the old basterd's scalp line, wirey black hairs which grow directly out of his brain wiggle thru all the corky sponge holes up to the surface. These hairs somtime wrap around the drill bit, conking it out and Madison has to restart the hammer drill.
And finaly, just below this, and imediately before you hit his tiny stony brain case:
Madison paused, whiped his brow and called to his colheage, "Get me the longer drill bit."
Right aftor the smoky crisps wafted above as he dug the sharp drill in, there was a crunchy sort of popping sound. Like that of an insect gettin squashed by somone's workboot.
Sudenly, a glistoning shiny blue-bottle-fly-colored-strand of greenish goo erupted in a stringy loop which shot out of the glory hole and spewed a foot above the old basterd's head. This means that the drill hit a burrowing cicada, which is also called a 17 Year Locust. It stays buried 17 years before it comes out of being hid in the ground to breed and in the case of Granfather not inside the earth at all but deep inside his friggin scalp.
There is so many danm forms of life on his jungle of a head you look at him and find yourself instinctively humming "The Lion Sleeps Tonight"
Sudenly Blankenship exclaimed, "Ach! Hurry...Hurry, Madison, HUDDY!"
"Arrgh! Them state aggie sprayers will be here nigh!," the spooky Scotsman cried, "And another unique biodiverse habitat will be a lost...LOST, as the beast of Loch Ness!"
Hearing Blankenship's words, Madison sprang up and grabbed somthing off the couch. There, next to the old basterd was this Fex Ex package which presumably arived that day. It was opened and beside it a powdor-blue folder with the familiar United Nations logo on it.
Madison quickly opened the folder, and I saw on the left side of it an official looking lettor signed by Kofi Annan. In the right pouch was a clear plastic shrinkwrapped brass placque.
Furiously Madison tore open the wrap and tossed the brass plate in the air; it sailed across the room, glinting in the pale fetid trailer light. Blankenship cought it, and slapped it hard directly on the top of the old basterd's head with a metallic clank.
"IF YOU DAGNAB GHOSTBUSTERS DONE BLOCK THE GOLLDANG TV SET ONCE MORE," snarled Granfather, in his only perceivable reaction to bein whacked with a heavy brass plate, "I'LL DONE WHUP OFF THIS HERE ADULT DIAPER, WHICH IS FULL BY THE WAY, AND SMOTHER ALL Y'ALL FACES WITH IT LIKE JIMMY CAGNEY DONE DID TO VIRGINIA MAYO WITH A GRAPEFRUIT IN WHITE HEAT."
"Ach, I've a-SEEN that film," Blankenship muttered severely, "And I NO WANNA THAT ta'happen." He then turned to the simporing Dr. Ripke who stood drooling beside him.
"Stand here, and a-hold this bluddy plate a-steady!", the Scot barked at him. Ripke obeyed, teetering there on his heels babbling incoherentley, though evidently happy that there was somthing seemingly important for him to do.
Madison quickly changed the drill bit and atached a half-inch steel socket. In a flash he threaded two big brass stove bolts into oposite corners of the shiny placque which Ripke held flat on the sloping simian skull and squeezing the drill hard with the same VVRRT! -- VVRRT! -- VVRRT! -- noise you hear at the auto garage when your havin your lug nuts tightoned, the torque as each bolt was fully drove in was enuogh to spin the whole skinny basterd around.
"IF YOU SUMBITCHES ARE GONNA TWIRL ME, THEN TWIRL THE TV TOO, SO'S I WON'T HAVE TO MISS MAH SHOW!" Granfather howled.
In seconds it was over. The brass plate with the familior embossed logo of the UN flag was painlessly fastoned tight to the old beast's head.
I am not here to debate the pros and cons of such teritorial infringements but needless to say even our Fedoral Authorities now canot touch anything on the old basterd's head. Yes, those wily criptos had appealed to the UN just in time.