Definnitly NOT printed on recycled paper
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"THANKS TO THEM SOUND ACOUSTICS, I KIN HEAR BOTH YOU FELLERS LOUD AN' CLEAR FROM WAY IN THE KITCHEN," Granfather mused, craining his filthey head up abbove the rim of the tub to show us his yellow reptillian eyes narowwing with mordant glee.
"MEBBE NEXT TIME I'LL GIT MY ASS CHEEKS DONE STUCK TO A SATELLITE DISH, SO'S I KIN HEAR YOU WAY OFF IN CALIFORNY."
The thing with Windoes 95 is that somtimes you acidentaly click on somthin you dont know that you are clicking on, and then it does somthing on your computer which is not clear how to undo. The othor problem Win 95 does is that it automaticly changes things when you DONT WANT it to change them.
But the worst problem is when you do exactley what the instructionns tell you to do, and the danm thing dosent do it. Or even worse, THINGS HAPPAN BY THEMSELVES.
This is what happned to Granfather. The first thing was that this box called Office Shortcut Bar kept popping up. He didnt ask for it and there was no way to minomize it. Granfather hollared and screammed for an hour tryin to make it go away.
Then some of the icons on the desktop kept disapearring for no reason. The onley way to make them come back is you have to keep rebooting the PC, and hope that on one of the re-boots your danm icons come back before you destroy your friggin machene. I know this has somthing to do with the Shell files but i am affraid to delete them.
Plus the crappy 486 laptop was destroyed in the mayhem. So much for re-instaling the OS.
Granfather was foamming from the moulth (which usualy hapens on a daily basis when he drinks Metamucil mimosas or margaritas, or stirs the fiber therappy powdor into any carbonated drink), but this time he wasnt. His eyes were rolled back revealling his third reptillian eyelid, the blue and white one. He was convulsing. He was incohherently screamming "RRRH!! WINDOWS 95!!! RRHHH!!" at the top of his lungs with his teeth clentched and his face was darker than the color of last-day-of-sale bannanas. I thoght if I didnt get help we woud lose the bastord. Yes, like all peoplle close to him, I want him to die. But i do not want him to die this way. Let it be insted surrounded in the lovving arms of his fammily as we all hold him down on the stainless steel table at the veterinarien clinic while the freindly DVM gentley sends a Loony Tunes-sized syringe of dark green sodium penthothal into his boney wrists.
I ran down toword the bank but Dad had left an huor ago.
Then as i stood right infront of the old cattalog store I see Junior walkin toword me. Junior is a man in our town who somtimes takes care of Granfather and our dogs. Othor than our family, (and somtimes the Sherrif and the sheriffs deputy, but only when theyve had a few drinks), Junoir is the only person who can tollorate the gristilly bastord on a sociel level, and by that i mean ocasionaly playing cards or drinking.
For a Christmas pressent Junior got one of those red checked hunting hats with ear flaps that tie down undor the chin with the leathor tie string into a bow. He has not takken it off since Chrtistmas. Also he wears these thick Buddy Holley eyeglasses with one of the arms missing and five years ago he glued a plastic chopstick in its place which you can clearley see stamped on it the name of the No Emm Ess Jee Chinese restuarant in the next county. What a waste of a humen life Junior's is, for somone who woud fit in so well in the internet industrey.