Now! With 20% LESS HYPE!
Page 2 of 8
Things were not going well for the two romanticly involved oddballs for a period of a few weeks. This intensiffied when Granfather had to stay with her for two nights as our trailer was drying out. Aftor it was dryed out, she came to stay with us, and that was a big misteak.
It was the regulor bitching and moaning abbout little things that did them in. Hair in the drain. Snot in the sink. Toilat paper placed on the roll the wrong way. Teeth left to soak in the wrong glass. A "floater" left in the bowl. Also Granfather never "lifts the seat", becuase, -- get this, -- he thinks that makin sure the toilat seat is in its propor place is "womon's work."
One nice fight took place during the closing breakneck minuttes of one of the Utah - Chicago baskatball Final games. Granfather didnt want to miss any of the action and so every time he had to tinkle he had me wheel him over to the bathroom and actualy hold him up by his shoulders only half-inside the doorway while he, tried to do his business...Bisness from afar. What a horroble disgousting man. If you think his acuracy isnt good to begin, just imagine how much worce it is from 7 feet away, and when the seat is down, and he is not even lookin at the bowl but tryin to see the TV. Later, on the next comercial brake the female James Carvill went to in plant her emaciated allmost nonexistant ass hams on the toilat herself to "do her bidness" as she calls it and she let out a squeal of disgust which earned Granps an whispery earful just as the old basterd was sittin on the sofa tryin to watch the last basket being made.
"Livin' with you is lahk sharin' a cage with a big ole hog," she mumbled in her whispery bayou patois drawl.
"I DIDN'T FERGIT TO 'LIFT THE SEAT', MISSY," the old basterd retorted.
"YOU DONE FERGOT TO PLACE IT BACK UP AFTER YOU DONE LOWERED IT TO DO YOUR BIDNESS."
She glowored at him, but kept her tounge. Her tiny black-eyed pea eyes seethed into a narrow frown.
"ALL THEM TOIDY-BOWL SEAT MECHANICS IS WIMMIN'S WORK ANYWAYS," Granps added all huffy.
The next morning I was doin work at my computor when sudenly my chair began to roll away from my desk. The trailor had lurched onto a deffinite slant during the night. We saw that undorneath, there was some crumbling of concreate suports. They were actualy soggy and waterlogged.
Later that day the contractor came. He told us that it woud take a week to fix. As what usualy hapens, Granfather has to make a scene. He began verbaly abusing the contractor. The cruel nasty inhospitable geezer swept his bony arm out, motioning to our surrounding acres and acres of junk and colectible crap, and snarled at him, "YOU SEE ALL THESE HERE VALUED TREASURES? IF'N ONE ITEM IS MISSING, I'LL PLUG YOU WITH BUCKSHOT."
Thankfuly the man ignored Granfather. He poked at the cement suports with an icepick and gave me the diagnosis. He said that "some amateur" must of poured these suports himself but insted of using cement, used a few bags of ceiling stucco and tile grout, and besides that didnt even mix it right and this is why its crumbolling because it got wet from above. He said its a danm miracle the frikkin trailer hasnt fallan off it yet. I didnt want to say it out loud, but that "amature" happened to double as profesional circus sideshow curiosity: Yes, Granfather did this, last summer.
Apareantly there was some reconciliation, and even a few romantic moments, but it was here at the trailer of the female James Carvill that things realy went downhill for the rellationship.
One morning Granpy cooked eggs for himself and he started a fight with her abbout, in his words, "THE POORLY QUALITY O'THESE HERE STORE-BOUGHT VITTLES," -- namely, a criticism of the eggs she got at the market. At our home, we have fresh eggs in the morning, (when my Uncle isnt acidentaly driving over the danm hens), and they are still warm before you cook them. Somtimes when you get used to that, you cant have eggs any othor way.
"MISTER DIGBY SAYS THET FRESH EGGS ORTA PLUMP UP HIGH IN THE FRYIN' PAN -- AN' NOT RUN WATERY ALL WHICHWAYS LIKE THESE HERE," Granfather griped in a very high-fallootin voice.
He referred to Digby Anderson, this English guy who writes a fancy food colunm for the National Review. (WHY the hell he reads a fine cuisine colunm,, I dont know; Granps is a man who beleives that choclate frosting is one of the Four Major Food Gruops and that Vaseline is an essentil fatty acid that needs to be eatan twice a day with a large tablespoon and nutmeg sprinkoled on it).
The femaile James Carvill was ofended by this and she snapped back, "We ain't got no hens heah."
Then, acording to Granps, she turned on the silent treatment, simpley pursing her mouth in a pout and stairing back at him with her small, bald squinting Carvillainous claymation face.
Well Granfather is a sick persen and the worst thing for him is to be ignorred. Also he loves to argue, (with anyone, abbout anything), but she wasnt giving an inch. The more quiet she was the more he hollared at her, and the more he hollored, the more queit she remained.
"SAY SUMPTIN TO ME, YUH MUTE SQUAW! EVEN IF YER NAGGING ME, GARRDANGIT!" he screammed.
Finally she did say somthin. She insisted, in her hissing backwoods Louiosiana drawl that before Granfather ate his eggs, he must first wash out the frying pan: Yes, he must wash it BEFORE he ate, or else the eggyokes will harden on it.
Granfather replied in a wiseass retort that he wantad to eat first, and then wash it.
And then she said, NO you old goat, you must clean the pan FIRST or else all that danm egg will become like glue.
Granfather then pushed his chair back, tossed his bib on the table, folded his hands like a skinny evil monkey and began carping off in a pontificol, condescending way abbout how, pardon me, the pan exists to serve him, and not him the pan.
Then she acused Granfather of stealing cigarets and vitamins from her. And also, for making a stain on her bathroom floor (and not to mention, also on the backboard and rim) that woud not wash out, because Granfather insisted on standing in the doorway to do his "bidness" as to not miss even one second of Game Five of the baskatball Finals.
"WAAL, OF COURSE I DONE MISSED SINKIN' THE GOAL FROM WAY BACK THAR," Granfather tryed to explain by screamin at the top of his lungs,
"WHY, FROM WHERE I WAS STANDIN', IT WERE A DAGNAB THREE-POINT SHOT!"
This argument proceadded into a donnybrook where the two of them started fighting screaming spitting hitting biting and throwin things at each other.
But of cource i coud NOT go get him. As you know, my job at 'Cyberblop' is over 150 miles each way. I only go into work 2 days a week and this was one of those days. I coud not leave to go pick up the old basterd. Also I was in the middle of gettin in troubbel for something I did not do.
I told my therapist that, in a way, I cannot wait to get fired from Cyberblop as well, if only so those mean people there coud also be nice to me in the parkinglot.
And she said to me that surely there will be NO REASEN for me to drive 150 miles just to see people I dont work with no more for 5 minuttes. I immagine that is true but also she said that my making a comment like that is indicattive of my need to seek approvol from others.
Oh well. What else is new. I admit it: I want peoplle to like me. But atleast i can admitt it. Allot of people cant.