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Walter Miller's Homepage(TM)

Good things come to those who wait, but all you get this time arround is this crappy update.

The Summer 2001 Update

Page 28 of 50

"JUNIOR. STOP BEATING THE BOY AN' COME TEND TO ME," said the old basterd. Our simpleton neighbour dropped the stick and threw himself at Granfather's hourny nailed yellow feet which were laquered into an evil shine.

"I'll do anything Grampy to not have to beat pore Walter!," he cowored, "ANYTHING! You want me to git on that ole exercise-bike aginn? I'll do anything you need!"

Granfather's tounge flicked in and out of his mouth like a nervuos cornered lizard.

"ANYTHANG, YOU SAY?" asked Granfather.

"Why, YES, Grampy. Aint that right, Walter?"

Granfather took a deep drag from the stump of a Lucky that I hadnt seen no one put in Granfather's mouth, but at some point Junior must of.

"I WANT YOU TO HAUL ME TO THE POT," Granfather puffed calmley as smoke breezed from his ugley black mouth. Horrific sloshing sounds rumbolled from low in his belly. Junior looked teriffied.

"WHAT'S THE MATTER? YOU JUST DONE SAID ANYTHANG." said Granps who before he even finished speaking, Junior ran around and arround in circles as if desperattly trying to find the front door of our trailer, even though he'd been here a milion times, faster and faster like some speeded-up farsical film of a hillbilly in overalls being chased by a Revenue Agent. All that was missing was the frantic banjo music in the backround. Junior is not exactley the person you want to call as your Phone-A-Freind Lifeline when Regis asks the half-million dollor question on nucular phisics. Finally he charged out the door and into his old 1988 black Mercury thats in perfect condition cause poor Junior has no life othor that to tend to both the car and Granfather. Exept of course, as we now found out, those times when Granfather has to take a crap.

A long long pause went by. A long long, pause where Granfather just staired at me in a scowling visage of pure evil.

"WELL BWAH," said the old basterd, slightley mocking and aloof, pausing for a beat as greasy tobaco exhaust wafted from his laquered lips, "LOOKS LIKE IT'S GONNA BE JEST YOU, AND ME AND MISTER BROWN."

"Whut about me?" Uncle Zeke groaned. Granfather raised his voice and screammed and Zeke, "YOU DON'T COUNT DUMBASS!," and sputtored out to his prone and immobbile older brother his plans to dry him out as he hung by his arm from the ceiling till he was "one big rawhide treat for the starving dogs in the yard, "...UNLESS OF COURSE YOU CAIN'T SURVIVE WHUT'S ABOUT TO HAPPEN!"

Very well then...What DID happen

I find few things more dificult to describe than the shame and houmilliation of being related to Granfather, exept possibly the horror of having to help him go to the bathroom.

Therefore I will spare you the details.

As is the great lost art of the great Hollywood filmmakors of the 1930s and 40s, who were not aloud to show sex scenes and grizly murders, and instead had to use teasing dialoge, clever inuendo and shadowed symbolism to draw out from the mesmerized audeince their own immaginative conclusions, I too will not go into revolting detail.

Howevor I will instead mention a few (but not all) of the items reqiured for me to use over the next three hours before I once agian was able to wheel the old basterd out of the can: An old fashioined three-legged police car tire jack; a 1910 era set of iron tongs, (desiged for gripping and remmoving one hundred pound blocks of ice from horse drawn wagons); a pair of needel nose pliers; a gasoline powored winch, complete with 100 yards of two ton test twine and a leathor bucket chair, (retired aftor two decades' service of pullin drunken hoboes out of abandoned gas wells); a scuba mask and hose set, (threaded out the dryer vent and conneted to three hours' worth of air tanks out in the yard - this is what I wear now); a brandnew vanadium tipped hammerdrill; a can of Coco Ribe, (dont ask. For Godsake dont ask); eighty seven rubber gloves; and finally a tablespoon of Vaseline, (and no, the Vaseline is NOT used for what you think. I smear it dirrectly it on my eyes as to avoid damage to the corneas becuase the caustic atmosphear will scald them even through the hermeticol airtight seal of the scuba mask).

Close But No "Cigar"

This is how much of it went. But finaly fruit was borned. The episode wasnt finished till Granfather was once agian sat infront of the TV set, nearly phisically exhausted as I was, and puffing contentedly on a big black Connetticut Leaf stogie.

Meanwhile I called the HazMet truck.

The HazMet truck (which stands for Hazerdous Metterials) had been on call ever since we returned from Mexico with the old basterd. They made the six mile drive from town a few minnutes later and proceeded slowly down the pitted dirt road that led to our trailor.

They were there to imediatly pump the septic tank

This was necesary because the last thing you wanted was for what just came out to hit the groundwater. The HazMet truck was flanked by a police Cruisor and an Ambulence in case any of the Hazmet workers were injured by fumes or corrosive solids.

Yes this form of special HazMat disposal is what is requiered by County law for anything emmanating from Granfather's ass in the absence of a special Toxic Biomatter Septic Tank Permit. The Permit expired at the end of 2000 and we nevor renewed it cause we thought Granfather was dead.

We have already appleid for a new Permit. And even though new special Toxic Biomatter Septic Tank Permits have been banned by anothor subseqeunt law, our family is still alloud to get one. I guess you coud say we were "Granfathered in by the Law."

Sitting in the frontseat of the police cruisor was Granfather's sworned enemy, the County Clerk and he had a very long look on his face.

"WHEEL ME UP TO THE WINDOW SO'S I CAN LOOK INTO HIS FACE," Granfather grumbolled to me. Being frozon in a Clinton Pose meant that Granfather coud not start a fight with the County Clerk, but the sight of the old basterd's face peering at him was bitter punnishment enough. The County Clerk had sold the HazMet truck to another county, a few hundred miles away. He did this cause he thoght Granfather was already dead. Now to clean up after the old basterd, he had to rent the truck back from the county he sold it to at an exhorbittant price, plus pay to have an ambulance on call.

To quote Ross Perrot, "The big Sucking Sound of Texas"

There is a speciel machine we have on our property, just outside the trailor next to where the septic pipes exit the wall. It is a platform abuot five feet square with a heavy steel grate on top. There is a switch that activates a powerful fan that sucks air inword. Under it there is a speciel HEPA-approved air filtor that protects the ozone. It is over that platform that any crap he makes must be loaded into the HazMat truck.

Our family got it installed in 1992 and many people beleive that this is the thing that Ross Perot referred to in those Presidentiel debates about "A big sucking sound comin from Texas." It is not jobs bein sucked into that thing. (WELL, ahem, mabye one big GRANFATHER job at a time).

More about the special Deluxe Platform Fan

By the way the great sucking platform has a reverse switch for blowing, for when the old basterd suffers from his infestattions of powder post beetles. They swarm by the hundred from just under his gills as well as his armpits in large numbers on warm early spring days folowing the rain, and we use the fan to disperce the insect hatchlings to the winds. Then in April come the pharoah ants, just as nummerous and from every crevice on his hide. Alls you hope is that when the sworms come, he is outside, and not watchin something like, Wheel of Fortune or else The Spice Channel othorwise there is no draggin the old basterd outside.

It is very, very disgousting. It is very very disgousting to live with and be near Granfather. He is a musterious beast and not human.

"TELL ME ABOUT MAH FUNERAL," said Granfather sudenly, while still gazing out the window like a diseased gargoyle at his hated enemy, The County Clerk, who staired back at Granps from out in the yard just as hard. I was still pissed at Granfather for having me beaten for the crime of, (Excuu-UUU-uuse ME), of saying that I love him.

I ignored the old basterd for a minnute or two and then told him that his funoral was a pretty morbid affair. Of course we didn't bury him and all we had was a small generic and non-denomminational Protestant service for him in the small cheap fake wood paneled backroom chapel of the Mortuary in a small town sixty miles away, with foldout chairs and Peel-N'-Stick stained glass windows stuck on the walls that were more peelin than stickin.

The Mortuary agreed to it only cause they were so happy they didnt have to enbalm the old basterd. The only ones who came to the service were me, Dad, my stepmom and Tilde. (Junior was too broken up to make it. Tilde just came cause she wanted to inject herself in my life. Spike, Darlene and the kid beleive it or not coud not make it cause Darlene was "sick" so she said, and also that day they were schedouled to get a mattress delivered from Sears, and sombody had to be home to let them in. Spike's insincere excuse that he emailed to Dad included the line, "And you know how Sears is: They tell you, 'any time between nine and one,' and then they dont bring the friggin thing till three-thirty..." That is how high the old basterd ranks in inportance to them.)

I am the only one at the Funerol who shed a tear for the Granfather.

The only memmorable thing for me was we all four went out for pancakes afterword and because she kept clinging to me the waitress thoght Tilde was my girlfreind. I have to tell you it really ruined my day.

A County Holliday