Walter Miller's Homepage

We dare you to find us a bigger, crappier site.

May update 1999 (yes i know its July)

Page 5 of 8


There is nothin worce than argeuing politics with Granfather. The little Perot started verbaly atacking President Clintin who the old basterd is a fan of, calling him "The Commander in Heat" and "Our Nation's Fondling Father." She also made fun of Granpy for sending $15 to the campiagn of George W. Bush who is the Govornor of our state and is also a Republican even while Granfather is a lifelong Demacrat. Granfather is very excited that George W. is runnin for president. (Of course, Granfather woud suport a deformed comatose labratory chimpanzee if it was runnin for President, as long as it was from Texas.)

"You shoud hear yourself, Granpy," the squinting little tiny-faced hag scolded him, "'George Dubya THIS, George Dubya THAT.'...You sound lahk a dagnab dumbass lovesick schoolgirl."

Granfather just sat there scowling, with his jaw in a tight grimmice as if he was tryin to force out a fart or somthing, but when it was clear he coudnt he threw a beer bottol at her, and she ducked and so it crashed into the breakfront which was full of Precious Moments figourines. The glass doors broke and som of the figourines fell on the floor. Yes, it is hard to imagine, but this evil bastord ogre counts ammongst his myriad and numerrous collections, an obsession with Precious Moments figourines. He is a sick, sick sick man.

Aftor anothor hour of this sort of fighting finally the little miniature Perot said she was thruogh with Granfather, and Granfather said FINE BY ME, because he had plenny of oportunites to meet othor women -- mysteriously atractive internet chat room women at that -- and also to get her miniature sized head and ass the hell off his land or he'd shoot her danm giant ears off with his eyes closed at fifty yards with his Ought Six.

And so she was gone

The pink Caddy wasnt all the way out of sight when Granfather stumboled out of the wheelchair and tromped clumsily over to the window thru the broken glass and in the process acidentaly stepped on one of the stray Precouis Moments which was lyin in his path on the cheap indoor-outdoor carpating of our squalid fetid trailer with a crunchey pop.

"DAGNABBIT, I DONE CRUSHED ITS LITTLE HEAD."

"NOT THAT I GIVE A RAT'S BUTT...PRECIOUS MOMENTS ARE CUTE AND ALL, 'COURSE I JEST KEEP THE UGLY ASS SISSY THINGS AS AN INVESTMENT."

I looked at the old basterd and he actuoly looked sad. I said to him, "Granfather, please tell me what is wrong."

My ghastley antecedent took a deep breath and re-lit his Lucky Strike, and tossed the match toword my face on purpoce, which isnt neceserrily out of malice, its just a naturol behaviorol reaction of his.

"PUT ON THE JIMI HENDRIX BLUES CD, THE ONE WHAR HE BANGS THET OL' GEE -TAR LIKE B.B. KING, AND I'LL TELL YUH."

In a minute, to the rich scratchey wails of J.H. and his ax, Granfather sucked hard on his Lucky and laid the blues on me.

"AH CAIN'T CRAP, BWAH. NOT SINCE THET GROUT WERE UP THAR. ITS DONE BEEN MONTHS NOW."

The monster breathed hard and blew the smoke at me. He steadied his wobbly legs by leaning one of his arms on the lamp, his yellow hourny claw talons gripping the lampshade. Then he flicked the red hot cigarete ash at me, rihgt at my face. I had to dogde out of the way or else i woud of lost an eye. I am used to it. Granfathor cleared his throate and spoke in a quavoring yet defiant voice.

"I AIN'T CRAPPED NARY A CHIP OR TINY CHUNK."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Granfather," I said.

"CRANK THAT MUTHA!" he barked, and I turned the CD playor up loudor.

"DIDJA HEAR ME, BWAH? NOT A NUGGET, KNOB OR NUBBIN... NOT A DASH, DOT OR DAB...NARY A SNIP, SMIDGE OR SLIVER; BIT, BITE OR BRUCKER..."

I held my ears and said "OK!! I get the danm idea!"

Granfather contineud by reminding me that his apetite had not abated in that time, and hes's still been puttin food into his body.

"FEEL THIS," he said, lifting his sour stinking shirt to reveal a pulsating bulge, and hobblin over to me on weakenned legs that hadnt been used in a long time.

"I SAID FEEL IT, BWAH!" he barked. I reffused but Granfather kept it up untill I relluctantly put my hand on his belly. The old basterd's skin is frightening to look at, but to actualy touch, appallingly unpleasent. Have you evor ran your hand over a large peice of fresh raw chickon breast with the skin peeled off, exept insted of being smooth and cold it is hot, dreadfully lumpy, (and Ugh, moving), and twice as slimy? That is Granfather's belly.

"FEELS LIKE A DANM HYUNDAI IS IN THAR, DON'T IT?
"THIS IS WHUT THE BLUES FEEL LIKE."

The rest of the night was horroble. Granfather, cruel abussive old basterd that he is, always hurts others when he has a problem. And so just because he coudnt crap, HE TOOK IT OUT ON ME.

While the music twanged on, Granfather yelled at me and hit me, callin me all sorts of names. He chased me arround the trailer hitting me with that teaspoon he carreys with him in his shirt pocket. It is a 1968 Hemisfair spoon and back when my dad was a kid he got hit with it too. You woudnt think a teaspoon hurts but when its on your knuckols or your balls it shure does. The sheriff told our family to call him when Granfather hits us. and the reasen why he uses a teaspooun is becuase he knows we will be to embbarrassed to complaine about gettin hit with somthin so small, and to have it show up on the locol paper's Weekly Arrest section, and in a court deposition.

"IT'S JEST A BITTY TEASPOON, BUT IT HURTS LIKE HELL, DON'T IT, BWAH?", Granfather allways says with glee. "SOMTIMES THE BLUES DONE FEEL LIKE THIS HERE TOO. YOU LITTLE FAGOT."

I tell you I actuoly felt sorry for him. It must be both painfull and houmilliating not to be able to crap in so long. Aftor being up till 4:30 AM both me and Granfather colapsed exausted on the living room floor. The blues CD had been looping the whole time.

"DANM!," he excliamed, breathin heavy from chasing after me. "I DONE JEST REALIZED: I JEST DONE BROKE UP WITH THE PINHEAD SQUAW.

"GRAMPY AIN'T GOT NO WOMAN TO FOOL WITH.

"LOG ME ON THE WEB, BWAH. FIND GRANPY A NASTY OL' CHATROOM... ...LET'S TRY AOL THIS TIME."

I said to him, "Granfather, the real problom is that you need to go to the bathroom."

I was able to convince the old basterd that he he realy needed to have this situattion of him not crapping adresses.

"BWAH, YOU'RE UGLY, BUT YOU'RE RIGHT," he said finaly.

"CALL THEM DUMB MONKEY DOCTORS, AN' HAVE THEM HERE FIRST THING TOMORROW."

I imediatly got on the phone dispite the late hour and called Madison, Ripke and Blankenship, the team of critpozoologists. They have caller ID and picked up on the first ring. They agreed to come ovor and help. Meanwhile i had othor problems going on in my life.

I got just an hour of sleep that night and had to start gettin ready for work. As you know I drive over 100 miles each way. It is such a teribble waste because once I get there alls I did for half the day was sit in yet anothor dumbass sharing meeting.

What this meeting was about

Aparently some higher up muckety mucks in at Cyberblop have been readin the danm "input forms" that peoplle filled out after being in the meetings, (actualy, they hired some high-paid crony consultent freinds of theres to read the forms for them), and have concluded that not evereyone in the room is "sharing." And so, the messege of this particulor "sharing meeting" was SHARE, DANMIT, SHARE!!!

In this meeting they actualy called your name and forced you to share. The one who called on you was one of the consultents (who I heard makes $500 a day, and his last job before this sweethart crony deal was, like, a grill boy at Denny's or somthing.)

They actualy went arround the room and called on you.

It was like being in the danm second grade. So dont you know it the first persen they called on was ME.

So I didnt know what the hell to say so I shared somthing for real which realy is a problem. I have a soft voice and i am allways afraid to talk in front of people and so people kept hollerin "speak up" at me. Anyway what I shared was that too many peoplle never clean out there directories on the J: drive and it is allways causing problems with server space on the network.

Right aftor I said this about 5 people started screammin at me and i didnt catch evereything that people said but I do know that the guy who behind his back we call Count Stroganoff, the big warty Russian guy said with his thick acent that its none of my danm business what people keep in there folders.

I never like being the centor of atention to begin with but right then and there somthing else hapenned: The receptionnist knocked on the door of the confrence room and told me i had an inportent telephone call.

My legs were shaiking as I ran down toword my cubicol, and not only that they paged me on the loudspeker saying that I had an emergencey call and all I coud think of was that it was the sheriff or Granfather's doctor or the hospitol calling to say that Granfather had died or broke his hip or somthin. I whipped arround the aisle and stumbled into my cube. And when I got there there was this big geek who i never saw beffore in my life sittin there at my desk. He was in the middol of what was a very ovbious personal call and he gave me a very very nasty look

"Who the 'F' are you?"

That is what he said to me. He coud of said, 'Who the hell are you?' but did not. He said who the F are you. It is just me, or have peoplle in this industry realy been overdoing the "F" word lately? It is very demorolizing. I think it started abuot a year or so ago, when i first noticed it. Mabye it has someting to do with Windows 98, who knows. Or that New York city now produces the most content. Cause everytime I go to work, no mattor what company it is, its 'F this,' 'F that', 'F you,' 'What the F', 'Get the F outa here', 'Go F yorself' and 'F-that-S'.

I feel like...I feel like, F man, that all day I'm in the middle of an effin Tarantino film.

It turns out Granfather was OK