The originol "non profit" Internet venture
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"HOW COME I DIDN'T HAVE A BIG ASS OL' FANCY FUNERAL WITH HUNDREDS OF FOLK?" Granfather demanded, slightly suprised.
"DAGNABBIT, ALL'S I EVER WANTED WAS ONE O'THEM BIG OL' DRAMATIC DAVID-E.-KELLEY-STYLE-FUNERALS. YOU KNOW, LIKE THEY HAVE ON BOSTON PUBLIC AND ALLY MCBEAL.
"WITH A LOT O'NOISE, MUSIC, AND FOOLISH DRAMATICS."
His Death Puts The FUN In Funeral...and that this float was folowwed by a caravan of four ambulences, their sirens happilly wailing, each with a five-foot-by-five-foot replica of a yellow yield sign, made of heavey plywood on each bolted to the roofs of the ambulences, on which the folowing words were painted, and read in sequence, as they trundled slowly down the street to fannatic cheers of a crowd wildley squealing with delight with faces bubboling over in the extacy of streaming tears of joy:
All of this ran thru my mind, and I became very upset. I said to him, "Granfather I dont want to talk about it any more." (Cause he last thing I wanted to do, lets face it, is cry agian and then get anothor beating.)
Free At Last...
Free At Last...
Thank God Almigty...
Granfather ignored my feelings and kept askin quiestions.
"IF I WASN'T BURIED, THEN WHAR'S MUH GRAVESTONE? I DONE PAID A THOUSAND BUCKS FER THET OL' STONE, WELL, WHAR IS IT, BOY?"
I said to him, "The gravstone is safe in the back shed covored with burlap just where you left it."
Back when I was 13 years old and lived in Califonria, me and Spike spent the summers with Granfather. In the middle of one July night there was a storm, and during a pitchblack power outage there in the crackolling of lightning I see standing over my bed the awfull satannic snarl of the old basterd grimascing in my face, and sudenly he howled, "IT'S BIRTHIN' TIME, BOY! GIT IN THE TRUCK! ...NOW, YOU DUMBASS!"
All the ranchers in the county knew of me cause I was tall and had unusualy long skinny arms. They woud call up at all hours of the day and night becuase I was the only one around able to assist in breach births of beef cows. That's when the animol comes out feet first. You actualy have to stick your hands up there and move the unborn creature arround so the calf's head comes out first or else it will die. It is the drippiest, slimyest most nerve wrackingly awful job my pre-pubbescent mind coud scarcely imagine though exeeded only a few years later when Granfather became diaper bound and I had to move in and tak care of him.
"DON'T SCREW IT UP," Granfather yelled at me at the top of his lungs on the 20 mile drive over to the ranch where a poor cow was in labor. Granps had to yell cause he was inside the pickup truck cab, while I remainned outside, my belly laying on the cab's roof, getting soaking wet while furiously wiping the windsheild with a rag and holding on for dear life with my knees as the truck bounced on rutted trails, being that the windsheild wiper moter had broke, and the old basterd was too cheap to buy a new one. Driving with Granfather on a rainy night was allways like this when I was a kid.
A good beef cow can sell for, like, a few thousend bucks and I am glad to say that that night I saved the calf. And to express his apreciation to Granfather, (while I got NOTHING dammit), the rancher gave the old basterd a reward: his blank grave stone that he kept out in the barn, a nice large stone that the rancher had boght back when he was a thousandaire but not nearly as fancy as the one he now wanted to upgrade to as a milionaire.
I had to help load the friggin thing into the truck in the dark, in the rain, still with calf slime on my hands as Granfather screammed bloody abuse at me infront of the rancher and two of his guys who helped.
The next day Granfather, in acordance with his sick sence of humor, (and this is a man still too cheap to pay $40 for a winsheild wiper motor) paid the local monument makor a hundred dollors to carve on it to mark his grave for all time some words in bold four inch high deep cut letters that read:
Flashing now back to that day in 2001 as I stood before the laqured basterd I said to him, "Granfather, you did not pay NOTHING for that gravestone, and you woudnt even have it if not for me. And it is right in the back shed where it allways was."
My voice was quavoring from hurt and emotion. I was still hurt at the cruel reaction I got from him for sayin that I love him. Granfather cleared his throuat and made a drammatic statement.
"I WOULD LIKE TO ACKNOWLEGDE AN AIR OF OVERREACTION ON MY PART REGARDING YOUR PRIOR REMARKS OF AFFECTION." Granfather began to speak pompousley, still looking outside, and not directley at me. I replied, "I woud like to acknowlegde the LACK OF AIR around your ass and up to the ozone layor."
Granfather focused his demon eyes on me. "THIS IS AS CLOSE AS YOU'LL EVER GIT TO AN APOLOGY FROM THE LIKES OF ME, SO TRY TO SAVOR IT, YOU OVERLY SENSITIVE CANDYASS."
The old basterd paused. This third reptillian eyelid swept in from the sides, then retreated slowly, bathing his evil gaze in a fresh layor of lubricative slime.
He spoke agian in an unusualy rare tone that was almost kindly, "WE ALL MAY HATE ONE ANOTHER 'ROUND HERE, BUT WE'RE FAMBLY."
"WAAL," said Granfather contemptously, "LOOKY WHO'S HERE: MISTER, 'OOH! I LUUVE YOU GRAMPY!' BUT WHEN THE FIRST SIGN O'TRIAL AND TRIBULATION COMES, ALL'S HE SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO SAY IS, 'OOH! I DON'T KNOW NUTHIN' ABOUT BIRTHIN' BABIES MISS SCARLETT!'"
"Um," Junior finaly said, "Was it a BIG baby, Grampy?"
"THEY JUST DONE TOOK IT AWAY IN THET THAR BIG ASS TRUCK. IT WERE RIGHT STANKY." Junior replied, "Is that why Mister Zeke done run off?"
"JUNIOR, YOU DUMBASS. ZEKE'S DONE STUCK...WHY HE'S...HE'S...
"...WHAR'S ZEKEY! WHAR'S ZEKEY!" Granfather sudonly screamed in panic, "THE SUMBITCH DONE WRENCHED FREE, LIKE A WOOD PUSSY OUT A STEEL POLE CAT TRAP!"
Junoir ran to the window and began nervuosly babbling that my Uncle's car was getting away, and as I took a look myself saw indeed that this was true, his big silvery green '71 Pontiac Catalina careening in the dust at Zeke's most frantic top driving speed of 25 miles an hour.