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"It is unfair that real life can get away with ironies that are too cliche for literature."
- - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The Summer 2001 Update

Page 23 of 50

Some things nevor change: I coud not sleep all that night.

The criptoes were yelling and holloring at eachother the whole time. Aparantly Madison was acusing Blankenship of a hideous crime, that of absconding with the specimin jar that held Granfather's horribly gross yet biologicaly unique four-chambered stomach -- and then trying to FedEx it off to some colleages in Scotland. Yes, just like a plant eating cow or rhino, Granfather, though a genuine carnivore, had a fully functionol herbivorrous digestive complex of gullet-crop-gizzard which led to a total of four danm stomachs. Gastro- Quadricameral old basterd that he is.

"Youre as bad as the Pig Man!" Madison screamed. Blankenship yelled back, "Do yee think me a ghoul? Ach!

"You stole his danm guts! Are you a cannibal?" Madison shouted.

"It WEREN'T to make me haggis!," pleaded Blankenship defensively, "Though, what a glorious specimin for to make what our poet Burns called, 'Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race'...
"Aye, but I tell ye the truth: It was for to make bagpipes! And a wondrous set too!"

Meanwhile as they screamed I had a teribbly clogged head and sinuses. I had to actualy sleep sitting up, with my chin resting on a pile of pillows on my lap like the danm Elephent Man. The sound of Junior huffing and puffing and pedaling on that stationery bike like a madman also kept me awake. The criptoes seemed so busy fighting that they neglectad to give poor Junoir a rest and so he carreid the heavy load of creating the sizzoling electrical charge to Granfather's exposed nad that still peeked thruogh the crack in his laquered resin shell.

Plus I was very itchy.

. My face, my neck, and thats the othor reason I coudnt sleep all night too. I coud not shake the disgousting feeling of that wet slathoring of Cathyann's sweat, from DuWayne's picture ID card bein wiped on my neck.

I woke up very crankey and as usual feeling sorry for myself but what else is new.

I woke to an odd silence. Junior had stopped peddaling. I sprang from bed and there was Granfather: Not dead at all, but still propped in his Clintonlike frozon pose.

Junior lay on the floor snoring. He had peddolled something like fifty hours straight but now was asleep. His red wool trapdoor long johns hung on him very baggy. All the peddling had took like, 20 pounds off his fatty frame. Aparantly all his work had efectively sustained a sufficeint "jump-start" for the evil beast, delivering enough initial energy to restore the freakish beast's devilish circulatory ganglia so as to thrive on its own without the continuol electrical testiculor charge. Plus acording to Madison, the jumpor cable was startin to pinch his ball.

Madison lounged on the couch next to the wheelchair where Granfather sat. He was ovbiously on his rest break, while Blankenship and Ripke poked and prodded Granfather, as both also ran back and forth between vigorous clicking on their laptops and PDAs.

On ovornight shifts, this is how the criptoes work; four hours on, two hours off, with guarranteed coverage of two scientists monitorring the old basterd at any given time. It was Madison's breaktime, and Granfather was breakin his chops.

They sat there watchin one of those early morning Hollywood gossip TV shows. The hapless Sean 'Puffy' Combs was the subject of one of the features.

"WHY CAIN'T MAH MAN PUFFY BEHAVE HISSELF?" Granfather grumped at the televison, "WUZZUP WIT DAT, YO?"

Madison rolled his eyes. Just like as was discribed long ago in that old George Carlin commedy routine, Granfather is one of these guys who insists on speaking in an exaggerated African-American acent whenever someone of that heritage is around. The elderly, mean-natured, unfunny, and out-of-fresh-materiol-since-the-Seventies old basterd, (Granfather, not Mr. Carlin), insists he is being polite. Perhapps decades ago before I was born this was considered polite, but nowadays I feel its politicaly incorect and very insulting.

It is yet another family-rellated houmilliation I must bear.

I have appollogized for Granfather's atrocious behaivore many times to Dr. Madison, (who, dispite being a bit of an excentric flake like the other two criptos) deserves respect as a brillient scientist with, like, 12 years of college. And to his credit, (though, lately it seems he is allways riding my ass about SOMTHING), Madison graciously tells me all the time not to sweat it: Because Granfather is NOT a self-aware being, but instead a sceintificaly proven non-human bioentity, part of a beastly exo-species who knows no better than to merely parrot his suroundings.

Granfather bucked in the wheelchair, hopping in a way so he coud face him.


Blankenship muttored into a small tape recorder, "Subject once aginn exhibits expressions of condessending dialectical to distract others in its personal space, and to establish marked teritories..."


Madison ignored Granfather's words, but being a dutifull criptozooligist he also jotted notes on his Palm pilot of the old basterd's behavoir. Granfather narowwed his third eyelid and focused on the Palm. Contineiung his attempt to annoy and hector Dr. Madison, Granfather kept up the hip-hop lingo.

"DAT BLING-BLING 'SHEEN BE STUPID FLOSSY," he said, to which Blankenship replied, in a slightly loudor tone, "Aye. Subject likes yerr Palm pilot." Madison looked anoyed at Blankenship and said, "I know that."


Blankenship replied, "Ye canna have cannabis, Grampy. 'Tis against the law here, still."

Granfather scowled at him. "YOU BE WACK. BUT HIM, BE WICKETY WACK."

"Arghh," said Blankenship, That means I am undesirable, but you exceed the bounds of acceptability in a good way." This pissed off Madison more, cause all Blankenship was doing was showing off his knowlegde, and he rejoined to the pompous Scot, "You know somthing, Blanky? Youre more insulting than the old freak. You sound like the danm nuns in the Airport movie, translating the jive talk to try to impress me."

Which is somthing that egotistical scientists do allot around Granfather.

The study of the anomolous beast allways becomes a pissing match between sceintists.

Just like the random array of boils on his ass, it is a pattorn Ive seen my whole life. All the sceintists have to dramattically impress eachother. This is because the Biologicol Mysteries of the Old Basterd seem to instantly reduce all of the prior decades of existing knowledge that anybody walks in there with, practically moot. (They are like a bunch of danm Internet industry trend whores, if you ask me.)

Divide and Conquor

Madison threw his hands up and left the room, cursing his coleague. Granfather has this way of getting people to fight with eachother. Madison and Blankenship always fight when theyre around the old basterd, and poor Ripke's stuck in the middle. Granfather simply brings out the worst in people. He is a horroble disgusting person. I am ashamed and houmilliated to be related to him.


...ACH indeed