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The Summer 2001 Update

Page 12 of 50

On my phonemail were some horriffic savage sounds. The last time I heard that type of aggonized howls of terror, Granfather was up and about. Only the evil beast can ellicit that type of responce in scientists who have been studying ghastley Mistakes of Reptilian Animol Nature for thier whole careers. It was just by those screams alone that I knew that Granfather was on his way back. The last phone recording ended with Blankenship shreiking, "Ach! What hath God Wrought!"

I slammed the phone down and cursed and sombody was standing there. That can be enbarrasing at work. (I am not a big cursor, except mabye when I am alone ranting and raving.) Normally Id be upset by this but it was only Tilde

"Its Only Tilde"

These are the two most gutwrenching words in the workplace. The phraze is used around here everytime there is a disastor: Its Only Tilde.

Like the time the servers crashed cause Tilde sent out a 30 megabyte animatted Holiday Card to the whole company. Or told our biggest cleint that he needed to be in Anger Management therapy. (The reason why he was screammin at her is because she screwed up the account, and we lost thier business).

Its Only Tilde (TM) has become a registored trademark of Cyberblop, even thogh the people in the Chicago parent office, (who "voted her off the island" so-to-speak, and sent her here to Texas to get rid of her, because with 20 years of tenure they cant fire her), are the ones who made it up.

Well it WAS only Tilde, and she sat down next to me and started whimporing.

What was bothoring Tilde

There is a big budget presentattion and Tilde screwed up the spreadsheet file. The spredsheet is spazzing out and nobody knows why and if she canot fix it she may lose her job.

More unwelcome Phisycal contact

She boursted out crying and I did not WANT her to, but as I inched away, she bureid her little tiny face on me and now there are streaks of mascara on my shirt that it turns out never washed out.

I am however gratefull for Tilde. As because of her, I am the second least liked person at work, instead of the first. (As far as proffesional incompettence it is a dead tie, but she outranks me, and so I am safe there as well.

A depressing ride home

I have a two hour comute both ways to work. Usualy I like to use the time to unwind, but alls I coud do was be angry and yell out loud so no one woud hear. I cry allot when I am alone. I was also mad because before Tilde left my office she forced me into prommising to get her out of this budget problom of hers no matter what. In fact she woud NOT leave untill I promised. She gave me a floppy disk full of tears and mascara and snot that had the danm spreadsheet file on it and I said I woud work on it at home. (Like I had nothin better to do with my time.)

And to make it all worse GRANFATHER was expected to come back to life aftor all those months of being laquered into suspended animattion. I know he is my grandfather and all but he is not human dammit,

The Monstrous devil returns

Some of you, my fans and longtime readers, as you read that headline abbove, must of experienced a pleasurable shivering thrill at the thoght of Granfather being back. Yeah, well I have to live with the old bastord.

What I saw (but smelt first) when I got home:

Aproaching the trailer to see a ghastley sight.

A hideoeus stench filled the air for the last four miles of the drive home as I aproached the trailer, especialy when I made the turn off the state route onto the rutted dirt road that led to our sprawling stinking compound.

It was absolutley shocking to see what was goin on.

A strong spotlight mounted on the creosote electricol pole in the yard sliced thruogh the inky darkness to light up in long shadows Madison, Ripke and Blankenship, the three criptozoology reasearchers who were crowded arround somthing large on the patch of gravel on the side of the trailor where I usualy park, their white lab coats flapping the in breeze like ladies' dresses centuries ago on a windswept moor as slowly and in tandem the three almost rituallistically, like a trio of chanting Shakespearean witches walked slowley round and round a huge loudley bubbling cauldron, mumbling out statistics in omminnous droning chants that as each of them spoke, each tapped into their handheld devices.

The liqiud in the giant bubbling pot foamed and hissed, heaving and bucking up in bubbles as big as grapefriuts, noisily rising above the verbol humming of statisticol incantations, as, there, in the center of the cauldron, chin deep and mistilly obscured by a ragged colunm of fetid steam that rose from it to assault the heavens, I saw staring out with eyes like blazing coals, the small, still, prone, chimp-sized slope-browed ape-skulled clear-coated rosin-buffed and hardspackled evil face of GRANFATHER.

It appeared they were boiling the bastard, presummably to loosen all that glue and fiborglass and stuff. (But being that he always smells like an elephant's ass its posible they were merely just givin the old sonnoffobbich a good soapy bath.)

Well I tell you I did really did not want to get involved. I climbed the rickety porch steps and once I entered the trailer, it seemed like a difforent world was going on.

Inside the trailer: my brother, uncles, parents and Junior.

My brother Spike was sittin there watchin TV and eating cereal even though it was after 8PM. He was on the speakerphone talkin loud with his mouth full of Captan Crunch Cereal to his wife and kid who were back at his house.

Our neighbor Junior was in the kitchon. He had a handfull of tools and was attaching to the fusebox a whole bunch of electricol wires that threaded into the house from the window ovor the sink.

What the wires were for

The Cripto doctors had hooked these wires up to their boiling cauldron out in the yard. We've all heard the stories of how you shoud never put a radio in the bathwater with you, as to avoid ellectrocution. You are not suposed to ever put live wires into water, but this is exactly what they did.

Dad and my stepmom Susie were also in the kitchon, and Susie was dabbing poor Dad's forehead in the spot where Dad got his fake eyebrow whacked off by Uncle Zeke, with the golf club.

Little tiny shrivvled Uncle Will was on the sofa next to my brother, the two of them sitting sort of close as to avoid havin to sit on or near the brown place on one side which for so many years has been the relaxing spot for Granfather's ass.

"Get off, you little troll!" a few times Spike hollored out during his long chattoring phonecall each time Uncle Will dozed off onto his shouldor.

Zeke has pangs of guilt for hurtin dad

Meanwhile Uncle Zeke stood in the center of the trailor, at the border where the tiny living room meets the tiny kitchen, stooped on flat feet and dead still except for his jaw which slowley moved in a thuoghtfull, ruminant circular motion, leaning right above where Dad and Susie sat, stairing at them both with the vacant gaze of an inbred cow on the low end of bovine IQ bell curve.

"I tell you whut, nephew," he began gruffly, "You done got hit far more worser that I thoght. But all that blood whut come out ain't serious," said Zeke, pointing his giant crooked fingor.

"Yes Uncle," Dad repleid politely.

We are a family of men who are affraid to show our Sensitive feelings

Dad knew that his uncle's clumsy observattion was the closest thing Zeke coud ever get to an appology. And the crude mercy of the whole thing was more grace than he'd evor expect from Granfather, his own mean cruel abusive and now rosin-encrusted father.

Bourbon Boy Red

My brother Spike was yelling excitedly on the phone to his wife about somthing he was watchin on TV. It was a giant mutant turkey. Have you evor seen on the TV news, every year right arround Thanksgiving when they show a huge disgoustingly oversized eightey or ninety pound turkey, on some farm three or four counties away? Well I have to tell you my family always tries to buy that turkey.

Last Thanksgiving Spike bid on Bourbon Boy Red, (celebratted as the Third Largest Turkey in Texas), but missed out. Howevor, the family who boght it, (in the next county) had their check bounce, and so Spike was next in line. But they coud not locate Spike, and so the turkey went back to the farm to sit on his fat fowl ass and eat canola-soaked barley and fatback for six more months to get even heavier.

Spike was excited because the same turkey - now 22 pounds BIGGER than he was on Thanskgiving -- was now available again.

Spike was doubly thrilled cause Bourbon Boy Red was now availabel at a discount, being that he tried to attack a small child and already crushed three female birds to death in eager atempts to mount them. Spike's delerious glee was living, fine feathored proof that my familly is irreversibly disfunctionol, because, you would figure by now, that one freakish monstrous beast (Granfather) is never freakin enough.

Well dont you know the phone started ringing at the TV studio of people who started bidding twenty, then fifty, then a hundred dollors to buy and bring home Bourbon Boy Red.

"I want that turkey!"