When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. Or perhaps your facing Granfather.
The night I had to drive to the pharmacey to get Granfathers prescritpions. When I came back I treid to ignore him for the rest of the evening, even thuogh I had to treat the boils on his ass and legs, plus some festoring fiberglass abraisions from where the sheepskin padding beneath him slid off, (or else burned and disintigrated from the smell of his ass).
I woud like to tak this oportunnity to thank David in anothor part of Texas who wrote in sugesting that we use a sollution of 50% Iodine and 50% sugar on Granfather's boils. We actualy discovored this a few months ago and it is wondorful because while the iodine is a disinfectent for the sores the sugor feeds the cells directley. The only problem is that granfather has a tendencey to atract bugs and so we have to sponge him off with some Malathion or Liqiud Sevin from the Home Depot. (Medicade does not pay for insecticides).
"KNOW WHUT BOY?" Granfather said to me as i smeared his scraggly yellow leathory knobbed skin with a badger hair shaving brush that was dipped in that syrupey Iodine and Sugar solution, "IT JEST AIN'T CHRISTMAS WITHOUT THE FAT MAN."
"AND I AIN'T TALKING ABOUT SANTIE CLAUS. I MEAN OL' JERRY GARCIA," said the bastord with a sad stare on his ogrelike face.
During the mid 70s when my Dad was strougling to get good grades in college while being a good fammily man to his wife and kids, his evil father, (Granfather) actaully took a year off to follow the Grateful Dead arround the countrey.
"PUT MUH DEAD CD ON! he hollared at me. The old bastord was the onley person in Rock and Roll history to be asked by other Dead fans to please STOP followin the Dead around due to his bad personol smelly odor.
Well I coudnt FIND the danm Dead CD, and the mean troll threw a giant screamming fit. He called me a "Wussy" and thretenned to choke me to death by lodging a bowling ball in my throahgt which woud be administerred into me from the rear, all the way up the alimentary canal. So that I woud be able to feel the little indentation of the crown shaped Brunswick Bowling Ball Compeny logo thats stamped into the ball on the back of my toungue. Granfather woud know how to do it, too.
CO, TAIWAN R.O.C
The result is it looks like a danm evil dworf who lost his legs abbove the knee plus his hands below the wrist.
Each year on Chrismas Eve, my Grandmother used to scare the hell out of me and my brothor by placing this danm thing in the bed with us while we were sleeping then wake us up by sudenly turning on the lights screamming: "WHERES THE REST OF M -E-E-E???" like Ronold Reagan in the movie King's Row when he got his legs sawed off by the crazey doctor.
(For as crappy an actor Reagan was, rent Kings Row somtime and tell me he didnt pefform in that as good as any other acter you ever saw).
I stormed back into to the trailor and coudnt find him. Granfather was screammin at me now in a blind rage. In his irrationol tantrum, sayin that as long as i lived undor his roof, i was to NEVER...EVER walk out on him during a personol treatment. And then he demmanded that I imediatly stop what i was doing and fix him his Metamuscil for the night plus get him his vitamins and while i was at it fetch him a dish of ice cream. It is not realy icecream but his speciel Lactose Intolorant Dietary Lowfat Imitation Carob Frozen Dairy Dessert. And put some danm chocolat syrup on it too for Godsake.
Gnarley twisted Apple trees. Giant Texas centipeades Sunflowers. Especialy when they are 'looking' at you. Cats -- especialy when they want to lick you. I am still scared of cats. Those minaiture tiny corn on the cobs you see in the salad bar Clowns. Not sad ones, but Happy ones. (Forget Bozo: I am crappin in my pants thinkin about Bozo rihgt now.) Casey Kasum. The front of the old Pontiacs. A see a litle of Granfather's face in them. Formor Govorner Ann Richards. (The womon has a beard. A white downey beard. I got close once and saw it.) The little creepy white Hamburger Helper hand with the smiley face on it. This I probly fear, STILL fear, more than the fires of Hell itself.
Grudgingley I set to do as i was told.
Some REAL icecream, made of cream, sugar, skim milk solids, carrageenan, xanthan gum and naturol and artificiel flavorings. Listening to Granfather's droning catterwauling wails of abbuse from the other room, it was sweet revenge to puor the last of the choclatly syrup with the bottol upright in ordor to see the last sweet gleamming threads of dark richness dancing, bouncing, wriggling, onto MY icecream: NOT HIS.
I threw the emptey bottol extra hard into the trash and said, "all out of chocolat sirup, Granpy." Then i sat down on the couch next to him in his tub while we watched TV. I made sure that he coud see that my ice cream had a topping on it but not his. And the joke is, that i do not even really LIKE chocolate syrip.
It was syrup allright but NOT the chocollate type but insted that horribble brown iodine and sugar mixture. Granfather plunged his hands downword below the rim of the tub, i heard a clinking noise and then the grizly beast held his soiled hands up to show me the tips glistening with brown muck. More awful wirey hairs were stuck in it.
"WHEN YOU WARSH ME," explainned the devil, "YOU GOTTA WARSH WHUT DRIBBLES DOWN THE DRAIN TRAP TOO, BOY."
I geuss at this point I coud write a disertattion on what a sterling career the old bastord coud of had as a profesionol product tampering terrorist. Or else describe the vomitifferous sequel that came next, where, having little left to heave up due to my earlior sickness, i do beleive I was forthwith reacquainted with the appearence of a poorly preppared Mexican meal I ate in 1990.
But insted as it is hard for me to talk abuot, i will say that it was at that momment I descided that i woud pack my things and go to California for the Christmas.