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The Summer 2001 Update

Page 29 of 50


"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."

I coud not tell Granfather the WHOLE story

And that was, that at the same time we had the little family funerol, in our small town it was declaired a county Holiday and, (though no one in our family was there) they DID have a big fancy funerol. The central event of which was a parade. With marching bands and baton twirlers and festively honking, bell-ringing fire engines, and with some guy, who the County flew all the way in from Connetticut, a distant Bush cousin (so I am told) as Grand Martial. Who even took solemn care to be sober for Godsake, and who, to the cheers of people from a five-county area who crowded in to flank our dusty streets, sat on a parade float made of pyrethrin daisies, (which as you know are used to make insecticide), atop which a giant banner read:
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:
Free At Last...

Free At Last...

Thank God Almigty...

NO
BASTERD
ON
BOARD

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.)

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."

About Granfather's Gravestone

I dont think I ever told the story of Granfather's gravestone. (Hell. This update is so long alredy, I'm sure you'd tollorate yet another small flashback)

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:

"AN APPLE A DAY MY ASS"

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."

Screamin from the yard

Finaly the rented HazMet truck loaded up its, um, cargo, and began the slow ride up the potholed claydirt track back to the state Highway. One of the Hazmet workers was new, and had nevor been exposed to anything that had come before out of Granfather. It was so horroble to hear his aggonizing screams. There is no way to tell if it is from fear, or pain.

A touching moment

Granfather's semi-apollogy, though from a semi-human, sort of touched my heart. He truely is my family. One day the shattored disfunction will all be dealt with. My eyes began to fill with tears. I heard a car begin to drive up. Minuts later, the shuffoling footsteps of Junior slowly mounted the creaking stairs. Junoir's pale moon face, sagging from the weight loss poked into the screendoor, which as he sauntered into the room silently with his head bowed closed behind him with a woody Thwapp.

"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.

Uncle Zeke scores a big one