Walter Miller's Homepage

Our survival philosophy is simple: You can never lose money if youve never made any

The Big Triple Update for May-June-July 2000

Page 19 of 26


Later on after the meeting as we filed out I saw Peaches folowing Bouvard out like a lapdog.

"This..this system of sending out messages to strangers far and wide -- what is it called again?", Bouvard asked Peaches absently.

"Email, sir!" was the chipper responce.

Bouvard grumped back, "Well then, harrumph! I can assure you that Cyberblop will become a LEADER in it for the 21st century!"

I went back to my desk to lick my wounds when Stu showed up.

"Hey buddy, tonight's the big night!," he said and tossed somthing at me.

I said to him, "Oh yuck! What's this?"

"That's your wifebeater undershirt," said Stu. "This is what youre gonna wear tonight. So? You ready to bust up some windows at that psycho biker chick's house?"

It was freshly washed but all covored with old stains that woud not come out. Stu told me they were beer and tobacco juice and barbaceu sauce. He got the shirt from Cathyann. It was Duwayne's shirt: Stu asurred me NOT the Duwayne who died.

Stu's strategy

Disturbing the Peace is not a big crime, but drunk driving is. Instead of driving there, Stu woud drive me over. I woud pretend to have taken a taxicab there. He woud pretend to of followed me, and will try to talk me out of my tirade.

Also, I had forgotten to buy whisky, but Stu also had a bottol of cooking wine from Cathyann. I opened it up to smell it. There was all this slobbory orange lipstick on the mouth of it where she was swiggin it.

"You're gonna do great man, this will be the end of you and this chick," said Stu.

The rest of that day

The only other thing I did was to attend another Hercules Team meeting where we went thruogh some more of those stupid anoying Haikus. It seems that both Mr. Bouvard and the Legal Department are suposed to have "final say" on all haikus we post to the website -- even the internal website.

What a bunch of dumbasses.

OK, here is the winning one thats supposed to appear on the public website, (if we ever get the danm public website EVER UP):

We earn cyber-bucks
On the super Info-Bahn
cyberblop dot com

Pretty crappy, huh? Yeah but it gets worse. They insisted we add after every mention of "Cyberblop-dot-com" the aditional words of our Corporate Tagline:

"A SUBSIDIARY OF CYBERBLOP(R) NEW MEDIA CORPORATION(tm)"

And this tagline cannot go BELOW the Haiku it has to go IN the Haiku. So much for keepin the danm Haikus to seventeen syllables.

I normaly dont speak up, but since only three people who I hapened to not like were present I did. I said, "A Haiku is suposed to be only 17 sylabbles in TOTAL." Petra snapped at me, "The opinion of a former oppressor is not needed here."

I answered, "FORMER opressor. But beside that the fact is, the danm tagline is exactly 18 by itself."

After this Peaches and Igor had this big fight.

"Nyet! NYET!"

Peaches is very mean. An argument abbout technical specs descended into a tirade where Peaches cruelly made fun of Igor's accent. Then he made fun of Igor's country, and its lack of fast modems and quallity B-to-B e-Commerce websites.

"You're lecturing ME about specs?," Peaches mocked, "YOU, from the Land of the Inter-NYET?"

This was very bad, because you are suposed to RESPECT other people's diverse aspects. Even if they involve strange beleifs, like Petra's. She is stuck on me not giving her orders based on her beleif that I opressed her 1,400 years ago. And in the spirit of multiculturol tolerance that is fine with me. But not so Peaches. Poor Igor is sensitive about his acent and is also afraid to adress a crowd--probly even more so than me. Peaches, (who is the de-facto boss of the Hercules group, then decreed that Igor will be the one to read the new Hercules Positioning Statement to the entire company in the audotorium.

"Nyet! Nyet!" Igor cried. Him and Peaches started screammin at each other. I got up to leave the meeting. I had to be home early. That night of course a good portion of our dysfunctional family planned to get togethor at the diner in town for supper.

While the two men were holloring as Igor wailed and howled and pleaded not to be forced to speak in public, and wept and blubbered, and called Peaches all kind of mean names in varrious Slavic languages I happened to casually and politely say to Petra who was sittin there staring blankly at the wall in sort of a trance, "See you later."

Petra's eves blazed open and quickly narowwed and she hissed, "Here's a flash: I am no longor your little French concubine."

I left work early

When I got home Granfather was seated outside in his wheelchair, presumably in direct sunlight as to help dry off, with one scraggly leg aross his lap. Nakad exept for his adult diaper, you coud see straight inside the leg hole because of his crossed legs. Yuck.

Though he looked relaxed, coolly sipping an orange Metamucil margarita, he had a look of concern on his face as he mumbled mournfully into the portable phone.

"WAAL, I DONE SAID I WAS SORRY. AIN'T THAT ENOUGH?" he murmered.

"OH PLEASE BABY," he said softly. "WHUDDYA MEAN, 'HOW CAN I CALL YOU 'BABY'? YOU IS MAH BABY, AIN'T YOU?"

Sudenly Granfather sounded panicked and desperate. Big crocodile tears ran down his face, and his scraggly frame of a dried out skeletal carcass heaved an wracked in heaving sobs. He wailed despondently, "PLEASE FORGIVE ME BABY! WE HAD A LOVE WHICH WILL NEVER BE REPEATED! OUR LOVE WAS MORE THAN SPECIAL!

"WE WUZ LIKE FRISCO AND FELICIA ON GENERAL HOSPITAL -- A LOVE WHICH WON'T EVER BE REPEATED!

"YOUR HOMES BE JONESING FOR YOUR HONEY, BABY, WHY, YOU THE JIGGIEST JOINT BABE THERE EVER BE! BOO-HOO-HOO!"

But alas the spurned little woman hung up. Granfather clicked the phone off. I was silent. The basterd continued sniffoling.

"BOY," he whimpered, and pointed his twiglike horny nailed finger, "GIT ME THAT BOX OF TISSUES ON THE PICNIC TABLE." I handed him the tisseus and he instantly grabbed them and started beating me with them. Yes, it might of just been a simple box of cardboard but it hurt like hell anyway. Not to piss him off further I just stood there and endured it. Yes i know it: I am a jerk.

"YOU DUMBASS SUMBITCH!" he screammed.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IF I GOT MARRIED THAT I COULD DESIGNATE MY WIFE AS FULL LEGAL OWNER OF MY COLLECIBLES? THEREBY PROTECTING THEM FROM SEIZURE FROM MY DUMBASS BROTHERS?"

I said to him "I dont know."

Granfather scowled at me. I coud tell that he knew in full that he was at fault, but that he wanted to blame ME nonetheless.

"ANNYWAYS, YOU UGLY FOOL, COME ON AN' HEPP ME GIT READY FOR OUR SUPPER TONIGHT," he muttered.

The deglazing I must say did not look bad. If there was ever such a thing as the old basterd being clean, this was it. Masses and matts of crust and twisted hair clumps apeared to be removed from his skin, and all his lumpy boils and pustules peeked out healthily from the brightly scrubbed surface of his naturol burnt hotdog orange colored scaly leathery non human hide.

"Granfather, I said to him, as I changed his diapor, "What is all this reddish tar on your stomach and balls and ass?"

"AW, THEM SHIFTY SWINDLING SHYSTERS DOWN THAR AT THE LUBE DUDE," he grumbled, "THEY DONE TALKED US INTO THE DANM UNDERCOATING.

"A GOLLDANG HUNNERT-AND-FIFTY DOLLARS FOR SUMPTIN' I NEVER EVEN NEEDED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

"SILVER-TONGUED SUMBITCHES. 'COURSE, I DON'T GIVE A CRAP -- MEDICAID IS GONNA PAY FOR IT."

Granfather insists on always busting horns. He once again wore his orange Lawrence Welk Show blazer, but on his head put this large vinyl Egyptian King Tut headdress.

Whenever Granfather sees his brothers he likes to wear this thing just to piss them off

Granfather, Uncle Zeke and Uncle William all belong to a secret society of collectors. I do not even know the name of it, it is so secret. Anyway, members get to wear these head dresses based on what levels of crap they have collected.

When you reach the 24th level you get to wear this vinyl blue and gold King Tut thing to their special secret collector society meetings. Zeke and Will, even with 60 years each of colecting crap are only on the 15th level, which means they wear a polyester turban. It pisses them off that Granfather qualifies for a 24th Levol headress. (Actualy, truth be told, Granfather was excommunicated years ago from the Society for ripping people off. His Headdress is probly stolen, or is counterfiet.).

We arrive

It was a strained, unconfortable supper. My brother Spike and sisterinlaw Darlene were already there. Granfather nodded stiffly to them, slightly dipping his Egyption headdress to the lady.

"BOY," said the basterd politely to Spike, who looked very fatigued.

"MA'AM," Granps nodded to Darlene. My infant nephew Little Spike sqiurmed unconfortably in her arms. Granfather knew well enough not to try to kiss the baby or else he'd set the kid off screamin for the next 3 or 4 days. At least thats what normally happens.

Zeke and Willaim showed up next. They all arived in the same car, but Zeke had to wheel in William.

All of us stood stiffly by the restourant entrance. My Uncles scowled at Granfather who glowered back at him.

"THEY WON'T ACKNOWLEDGE MAH HEAD DRESS," Granps whispered to me haughtily with his rancid fetid breath.

"I ALWAYS WUZ THE ONE WITH THE MOST SUPERIOR COLLECTIONS."

I said to him, Granfather PLEASE dont start a scene.

Uncle Zeke looked funny.