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The First of Two FEBUARY 1999 Updates

Page 5 of 5


Oh Crap!!
I will tell you how steamey it was: she signed it "Hot Cheeks" (i am not kidding) and in the note it said that said she wanted me to come into work the day aftor that with an earring cause she thoght that men with earings were sexy.

This was somthin I had to think abbout. I am weak, desperrate and inpressionable. I am easy to infleuence. A folowwor and not a leader. Blown by every trend and pressure of peers, peers even I havent even nevor yet met. And so I figuored what the hell.

After work on my way home I stopped at the Mall off the freeway and went into this store and said that I wanted to get my ear peirced. The guy behind the countor with the peircing gun wanted me to fill this card out, probly to put me on there mailing list or somthin. There was even a spot on the card to put my email adress. Yeah, right. Thats all I need. Spam from the peoplle at the jewlry store who pierse my ear.

I thoght about for a moment, and then just chickoned out and left the mall.

By the time I got home, Granfather was still readin those danm internet industry magazzines that were all piling up while he was in the coma. Not only that, but his smallheaded girlfreind, the virtuol female version of H. Ross Perrot was on the speakor phone with him and they were in the mist of a loud, angry disagreemint.

Granfather, still unconfortably streched out flat on his back impailed on the giant rectal plastor invasion, was on the phone shoutting at her while at the same time throwin magazines at me out of pure malice. Many of these magzines Granfather had blowed his nose into or else were wet and covored with muck and tobaco juice spattor. He is a horroble, horoble, disgousting man.

My brothor, who was in the othor room tryin to get his laptop corectly dialed into his job in California was holloring for them to "KEEP QUIET."

My brother was there to help us wrap up all the paperwork and such for Granfather's expectad death. (It seems that the family thinks that I am not maturre enough to handle it.)

But as you know Granps didnt die

Thanks to having to take an extended stay in order to settol Granfather's estate, (a stay which tragicaly ended with the unfortunnate medicol complication of Granfather unexpectedley surviving), my brothor was now all out of vacattion time for this year. He had to dial in to his job if he wanted to get paid this week.

"One more sound, and we will have a funerol this week!" my brothor yelled.

But even still Granfather and his maniacol, meanspiritted little troll of a girlfreind kept on yammoring on ignorring him.

The two old wackos were havin a fight on the phone

Aparantly the fight the was Clinton-related.

As ive mentionned before, Granfather likes Clinton. He doesent love Clinton, (and indeed like allot of people are prettey danm sick of him by now), but even still he still loves springing to his deffense. Especialy in view of such attacks from the female version of Perot. Granfather also is one of the few peoplle who actuoly deffends Clinton's charactor.

"LISSEN UP, MISSY!", the old basterd shoutad into the phone, "HE'S DANM GOOD AT HIS JOB. WHY, HE'S KEEPIN' INFLATION DOWN!"

The high-piched crackly voice of the femaile Perot version squawked back, "Yep, cause it's the only thang he can keep down!"

"SO WHUT," Granps screamed back, "SO WHUT, HE AIN'T NO CHOIR-BOY-GEORGE-DUBYA-TYPE!"

(In case you don't know, 'George-Dubya' is what they call the Texas Govorner, Goerge W. Bush who may be runnin for president next year).

"George-Dubya's a nice lookin' man, not a flush-faced fatass," the litle troll twanged back.

"PORE MISTER CLINTON - HE'S JUST MISUNDERSTOOD," the old basterd hollored into the phone, "GOOD AT HIS JOB, BUT MISUNDERSTOOD: JUST LIKE PORE MIKE TYSON!"

"Tell yuh whut, Grampy," she retorrted, "Thar ain't no 'Y2K Problem' at all."

"See, it's a Y-K-K problem," she shreiked, in ovbious referrence to the "YKK" logo on men's fly zippers.

Granfather's normaly pus-colored face grew a deep-hematoma-purple with rage. "CLINTON-HATING BITCH!", he screammed as he slammed the phone down.

"SHE'S JEST LIKE ALL THE WIMMIN IN THIS COUNTRY: SHE DONE DEEP DOWN WISHES SHE COUD GIT UNDER HIS DESK!"

Now that the little hag was no longor on the phone, Granps once agian projected his frustrattion toword ME.

First he started callin me ugly, (which has allways worked for him since I was a small boy.) Then he threuw one of the magzines at me that was on his chest

LOOKY HERE AT THIS: IT'S A 'QUEERIE OFF'," Granps said.

The magozine had an articol on how the president of anothor company chalenged Bill Gates to a public "query off" right after Sequol Server 7.0 came out, in ordor to see which of two competing products coud peform a query faster.

My brothor hollered in from the othor room, "Granfather, I told you to shut the hell up!"

"I DON'T RIGHTLY EVEN KNOW WHUT A "QUEERIE OFF" IS," said Granfather very loudley, half directed at me, and half to my brother in the other room, (who clearley didnt give a crap), "BUT IT SURE SOUNDS LIKE SOMTHIN WALTER MIGHT ATTEND!"

You know there are allot of things that Granfather says that i just let roll off my back. I reallized that he is just an evil old deranged basterd. Then as i walked away he said, "HEARD YUH TINKLIN' LAST NIGHT, BWAH. YOU PEE LIKE A GIRL."

This too i ignoared.

I know how to press his buttens

Granfather is a mean, wantonly mallicious inherintly evil devillish old monster. He delights in torturring othors with his shocking disgoustingness and intentional creulty. The only way to press the old basterd's buttons is to IGNORE HIM. Boy that realy burns him.

The only problem is that if you iggnore him for too long he will do increasingly worse and worse things untill you aknowlegde him.

In family counselling, we were told to somtimes "act shocked" just to indulge his infantile malice. Howevor, since Granfather made fun of my withdrawn situattion, well, now I was gointo make him suffer.

And so i IGNORED HIM

Now the old basterd pulled out the stops: Yes, more PROJECTING. He tried to spit a loogie on me, like he did before. Exept this time I was not standing over him. Remembor, the old basterd is lying flat on his back and cannot move his head.. So, insted of it hittin me in the face, the clammy wads shot up in the air and landed on his own face. This frustratted the frikkin crap out of him, and I haveto admit, that as pittifull and deranged and insane Granfather is, I still secretely gloated at his misfourtune as the toxic goo shot up from his moulth like a Roman candle, only to smack down onto his ghastley face, now twisted and grimmacing in painful frustrattion.

"I WANT BAD TO SPIT ON YOU!
"BUT I CAIN'T GIT NO TRAJECTORY!" he howled, in visibble agony at not bein able to hurt me.

He hollered, "TILT ME, , YOU SUMBITCH!," actualy beleiving in his manniacol presumption that I woud facillitate his creulty toword me.

I said to him "Hell NO, Granfather." The old goat looked back at me shocked, dumbstruck, and allmost like his feelings were hurt. This is how sick in the danm head he is.

"THEN HOW THE HAYLE I'M SUPOSED TO SPIT ON YOU, BWAH?"

"MUH GOLLDANG PRO - JECTERY AIN'T GOT NO DAGNAB TRA - JECTORY!"

Then Granfather descended into his last resort:

"I FEEL PRETTY."

He started to sing ovor and over agian that song that got my brothor so mad in an earleir update I wrote about: that awfull barking shouting screamming half-in- German-and-half-in-English rendittion of "I Feel Pretty".

A horiffic Vision

Just then my brothor burst in throuh the door. My brother as I mentionned has a bad tempor and is more likely to stand up to the old basterd. He had swored to kill Granfather if he ever heard the old basterd attempt any further vocal arangement or rendition of any kind that even resemboled in the mere slightest the perky dellicate Bernstein-Sondheim show tune creattion.

My brother was visibley shaiking in anger. He told Granfather to shut the hell up with that danm song cause he coud hear him straight through the danm walls.

Granfather hollared back, "I FEEL PURTY, BUT YOU LOOK UGLY," a statement that the stupidness of which sunk in over the next moment or so. My brother said simpley that if he sang one more line of I Feel Pretty hed shoot him in the danm head with the shotgun. Well the old basterd as you know cannot stand down a threat. He started singin the song at the top of his lungs with the cigorete cletched in his teeth. Granfather's voice is uniqeuly identical to a cross betwean one of those mean apple trees in The Wizerd of Oz and somone belching in a cofee can. It is a croaking, mettallic baldface frightning sound. Even after all these years it scaires the friggin hell out of me.

My brothor sprang up and in one minite had the shotgun loaded and presed against Granfather's large beaklike nose, bending it to one side.

The Horiffic vision I began to imagine was one of me watching TV footege of blood and greenish black insect goo splattored allover the trailor walls, (which is what Granfather has inside him as oposed to normal human blood), while my brothor, his face obscurred by a giant fleshed out dot to protect his iddentity, is excourted by state Rangers into their police criuser to face charges of either Capitol Murder or the Unauthorrized Termination of a Rare Species Without a Lisense. While in the upper right screen-in-screen caption, George Dubya is on TV dellivering a reedy-voiced speech to the Legistatoure on how he plans in a firm but compassionate way to crack down on dommestic family crime.

The horrer. The mayhem. The disgoustingness. It all contineus: Read abbout it in the next updatte.

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