We made no money on the web before it was cool
Page 30 of 50. Which i geuss means we are three-fifths done. But I realy dont know. (My math is as bad as my spelling)
My secret guess was that it woud be a Ronold Reagan mask, to contrast the Clinton get-up. But this woudnt get a charge out of Granfather. He liked Reagan as much as Zeke did, but I was never alloud to ever mention it.
The next day was my work-at-home day and so we waited on pins and needols. Once or twice Granfather gruffed, "WAAL, HE WON'T TRY HITTIN' ME AGINN ANY TIME SOON. AND THERE AIN'T NOTHIN; HE COUD DRESS IN THAT'D GIT ME AS MAD AS I DONE GOT HIM ALL FROZE LIKE CLINTON AND ALL."
Finaly at arround five p.m. the low-crinkley-pop noise of big Catalina tires on scattored gravel sounded from outside, followed by rattling knock of the car's engine being turned off.
Actualy, Granfather was thrown out of the Secret Society years ago for ripping off members, selling fake items that he said was real when he knew othorwise, and bouncing checks on purpose to obtain colectibles. Anyway, depending on what Level of a Collector you are, you are entitled to wear a special hat.
The Highest Level of all is a naugahyde Egyptian headdress. This is the hat Granfather has. However he is not alloud to wear this special headdress, because he was thrown out of the club back in the Seventeis.
It has allways irked Uncle Zeke and Uncle Will that Granfather never turned in his headdress when he got thrown out of the society. It equaly pleased Granfather with all relishment that he coud torture his brother by wearing the headdress whenever he was in town.
Zeke stood there on the gravelly clay dirt parking apron, looking up at Gramps, and he was also wearing the flowing purple robes which is the Dress Unifform of the Speciel Secret Collectors Society of All Sorts of Crap (that is not their real name of course), and in the puffing, blowing breeze which is a continuol constant here in our part of America, as Zeke stood ramtrod straight, the robes flapped majesticaly.
Yes, they were GRANFATHER's robes. Back when we were in Mexico, (I later found out) Zeke had found these robes, packed with mothballs and way back in a garment bag in one of the old basterd's back sheds. My Uncle sort of looked like the exotic swami on those old Hills Brothers coffee cans, togethor with the flowing robes and with that naugohyde Egyption headdress lashed to his head seemingly irretreivabley by many looping lengths of wrinkled, poorly applied two inch wide cellophaine packing tape.
"THAT SUMBITCH," Granfather growled under his breath, trembolling with rage. "I WILL GIT HIS ASS FER THIS.
"I WILL GIT HIS BIG, HIGH TALL FLAT ASS FER THIS, EVEN IF IT KILLS ME."
Uncle Zeke must of been good at supressing smirks of acomplishment, but I dont believe he is capable of smiling. The two of them just stared at each other. Finaly Zeke mounted the rickety porch stairs with loud clomping steps and confidently entered the trailor. He nodded respectfuly at Granfather, and then turned to me.
"If'n you'd oblige, then make me some supper, boy," Zeke gruffed, as he took his seat at the kitchon table. Granfather, still frozen in his Clinton Pose woud of tore Zeke's heart out with his jaws if he coud, but insted looked powerless, and white hot outraged, and beneath the deceiving Clinton smile, his eyes flashed as if part of an angry primate's warlike grimace. Sort of like the surly and no-longer-childlike eyes might look on Curious George, who, no longer a hapless ignorant chimp, and having emerged from addolescense as especialy smarter-than-average for his species, had whereupon just awoke from surgury, still unable to move, yet full well clever enough to understand the full meaning of the fact that the Man With The Yellow Hat, distraught at his hyperactive pet's compulsion toword self-grattiffication during the most inopportune times throughout their continuing madcap adventures, had earlier in the day presented him to be castraited there on the cold steel table of the veterrinarian's office.
Meanwhile I was angry too. I was not happey that Uncle Zeke woud do something like this. Why does he have to provoke the old basterd? Why cant we all get along? All my plans for getting the familly back togethor again on amiable terms was now set back.
Uncle Zeke had the highest first roll and he went first. It took the ilitterate giant in the naugahyde headdress a whole minnute to read the card that he held far at arms length, squinting, frowning, and movin his lips arround like a cud chewing ox who'd lost all his teeth.
"Name a teacher who had an impact on yer life," Zeke mumbled. He and Granfather staired at eachother. Junior whimpered with fear, and broke the silence, "Please Grampy, please Mister Zeke, mah turn is next, so don't spoil the game fer me, y'all, please."
Granfather muttored somthing under his breath and Uncle Zeke anounced HE DIDNT WANT TO PLAY THIS PRISSY GAME and in a big clattoring tiff tipped the entire table with "The Chicken Soup For The Soul Game" on it right at the tip of the tie that was tipped toward the tip of the POTUS of the old Clinton-grinning stinking basterd.
Stu is realy a great guy cause he already anticipated the gushing clingy weepy overly emmotional response that Tilde surely will give me when she finds out that I did a big favor for her, by getting that expensive Customer Relation softwear for her. Because if there is one thing worse than getting an unwantad favor from Tilde, it is giving her one.
"I already took care of it," said Stu. He told me he called her and told her that buying the $2,000 software for her was all his idea and not mine. Her response to him was very profesionol because she dared not pull that Codeppendent crap on Stu. Not only does Stu outrank her in the company he is not a Codeppendent Enabler like me.
You cannot beat a guy like Stu, he is terific...
...And I feel realy bad about this, but I had to throw him out of our house. It is becuase right after suppr when Junior walked in the trailor after going shopping in town, Stu did not act toword Junior in a good way.
"Hi Junior," he mooned, batting his eyes like a swooning lovesick schoolgirl.
And just beffore Junior coud answor 'Howdy Stu' and Granfather coud scream 'WHUT THE DAGNAB HAYLE'S GOIN' ON HERE?', Junior wheeled around in his chair, Stu got his first good look at him, and instantly boursted into tears.
Yes allot of tears are shed on this website in case you havent noticed yet. Indeed I am a pity magnet. But its the first time I saw a man cry cause anothor man had dropped 20 pounds and was now therefore less desireable to cook and devour.
Stu sprang up and ran to the bathroom like a 14-year old who just got stood up on Junior Prom night by the Class Hunk and flung himself on the stringy yarn rug and wept and wept, dapping his tiny porcine eyes with its pissy raggedy edge. I went in aftor him and I locked the door.
"Pull yourself togethor Stu."
"Whats happened to him?," Stu wailed, "I smelled that cheap cologne of his comin up the porchsteps, and Im not ashammed to say that I felt the thrill of being alive...but now that I see him: The thighs, the belly...He's just not juicy anymore," he sobbed, a more painfull sob than I ever remember from the poor porker exept for one time from back in the late 80s when we both lived in California and the McDonald's in our town decidded to discontineu the McRib Sandwich.
"You SHOUD be ashamed," I said. "I can't," he sobbed back, raising himself up on trembling briskets. He leaned over the sink looking just as nauseous as heartbrokon, heaving in spasmoddic weeps, as two giant strings of snot hung from each of his snout's nostrills, dancing from the uncontrolloble quivers of his lowor jowl.
"Okay, you have to go home now," I said. It was painfull to throw out my good freind from my house. But I did not support cannibbalism, not as a lifestyle, and not even as an experrimental exploration of finding one's self. It is bad enough around here that there was already a resident monster (Grandfather) who'd once bit off with one bite a Scotch criptozoologist's ass cheek. .
The next morning at work I walked in the front door the same time Peaches did. And insted of his fancy preppy dockors Peaches was dressed like a football player. I thoght it was strange and he gave me a really nasty look and it was then that I reallized that today was the Dress-Up-In-A Costume-Day. I had forgoton to dress up, but about half the people at Cyberblop had too, and so I didnt feel bad.
I saw Stu in the hallway. He was not dressed up and was wearin a dress shirt and tie. After chatting for a new minutes I realizzed that things between us had been effectively patched up. I knew they woud be. Much of it coud be chalked up to the fact that Stu's confiddence was always able to surmount his shame. I admired him for that, and I was very proud Stu to call him my freind.
I said to him, "Stu, did you forget to dress up?" He said, "Naw, I remembered, but I have a cleint meeting today.
"Besides," he said a little sheepishley, "When you look like ME every day, why the hell woud you NEED to dress up?"