"I'm trying to think, but nothing happens."-- Curly Howard
Page 14 of 50
His whole body was covored with a caustic jell that was melted all over him like a few gallons of cheap, pearlescent shampoo, and as his ugly fanged mouth finaly opened, only a half inch, but enough so strings of gummy stuff between his upper and lowor lips, now parted from their glued state for the first time in many months, danced like skinny witches of slime on the warts on the rump of a posinonous toad, fluttoring like the strings of Satan's harp; a tarnished crooked harp, misapropriated from Heaven in the claws of a fallon angel at the time of Bannishment from Hell as Granfather mouthed the first words he's said since being ensconsed in fiberglass, resin and automobbile laquer since the final days of the end of the last Millennium:
"HANNITY AND COLMES: THE TWO BEST-LOOKIN' MEN ON CABLE."
Yeah, I know it supprised me too. The three criptozoologists sprang to cluster arround him, with examination tools and small beeping handheld gizmos. Plus there was a mass of wires everywhere, seemingley miles of them, all arround our property, snaking around buildings and barns and sheds, and scamporing mice, hopping dommestic chickens, lounging dogs and crapping goats.
"Tis a queer thing to say," Blankenship finaly said, limping still from his devastatting buttock-sevoring bite from Granfather's jaws a year ago.
"Careful, Blanky; he might be able to hear you, and he wont like what he hears," warned Madison.
"You mean me use of the word 'queer'? 'T'werent meant as a boy-likes-boy thing. From whar I hail Scotland, the word 'queer' means..."
Madison cut him off, "You said it again; The Subject dosent think like a human. Man, you ought to quit while your behind. Before you lose any MORE of your behind."
Sudenly a faint beeping chirped from the Comand Center inside the van. Ripke sprang into the van, and emerged, widley waving his arms.
Insted of a heart the old monster did possess a number of cardio-ganglia, which are musculor masses of rubbery gristle and nerve endings which functioned as a heart, sloshing the pools of smelly bug gut goo in the voids of his crusty interior. Howevor all these were scraped clean from his carcass at the time of the autopsey. But acording to the criptoes THEY WERE NOW GROWING BACK.
"Tis a marvel, a bluddy marvel," said the overly drammatic Scot, crouching to gaze into Granfather's reptilian eyes.
"'Tis a teratological tirade of recapitulative biogenesis, tantamount to..."
Madison interuppted, "Will you shut the hell up."
Of course the next day I had to go to work. Not that I got allot of sleep. Poor little Uncle William needed to be taken to the bathroom, and also have his bottols of oxygen and feeding tubes adjusted. Me, Dad and Susie took turns.
In between all of this I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and kept thinking about Granfather and the horror that woud be overtaking our family once agian in just a few weeks as he recovored.
Meanwhile Junior stayed in the yard all night sitting on a folding chair and reading articles out loud to the comotose old beast from a two-foot high stack of USA Todays he had lovingley saved from Novembor and December, which chronnicled the 37-Day Florida Election Recount.
"Poor Granpy done missed the whole ugly affair," Junior wept with pity. "Its the least I kin do.
I WILL TELL YOU WHY.
Because it is such a long drive to work, I usualy get there just in time to take a dump. And I am very particulor about such things. I like things nice and clean. Yes, making crap at work is unavoiddable I suppose, and I am not talking about the quality of the code that I produce though the comparrison is often acurrate.
Like old fashionned men in small savage countries who like to marry virgins, I too like to be First On The Bowl in the morning. It is a matter of avoiding germs, promoting cleanliness, and eschewing the very common and often inevittoble complication of corporate America that dares not speak its name: that unpleasentness known as the plague of workplace Spattor.
Skidmarks, smears, drops of pee in the wrong place and orbiting fragments that dont make it down on the first flush are all also casualties that furthor lacerate the fragile sensibilities of those like me who suffor from Bashful Colon and generol public restroom squeammishness. In othor words I dont want any of it to get on me: a noble goal if there ever was one.
And I refuse also to paper up the seat to the thickness of War and Peace before planting my hams thuogh that is probly what is needed if you want to avoid a close encountor, even if the seat looks clean. Usually it does not, thanks to the careless java programmers (I KNOW its the java programmers, dammit, their the ones eatin TexMex and pizza all night here), and so, why shoud a few trees have to die cause a few people cannot flush, or clean up, or even Lift The Seat for Godake?
Alrighty, then. How do I delicattly deal with such unpleasentness?