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I have always, so very badly, yearned to write. And so now. so very badly, I write.

The Summer 2001 Update

Page 47 of 50


Spike started argoiuing with them and they all three started holloring.

It was the loudest argumment I ever heard in my life without anyone hittin eachother or a neck vein popping open, though both those things seemed iminent till sudenly from the oposite side of the house, a tremendous thundoring rumble sounded, from Granfather's giant platform ass fan.

The noise set off the monstrous Bourbon Boy Red who started sqauking and hopping arround the yard. One of the big Germans raised his foot and out from beneath his tailored white slacks came the kind of brandnew cowboy boots that real cowboys never wear, only brainless Tourista clients of Stu who overpay for them at some East Coast airport on their way out here, and with it he impulsively kicked the poor animol with contempt. It shreiked and flailed in agony.

Oh, Lordy this was a misteak. Spike dashed into the barn. One of the Germans said, "Der Little Baby runz away, Yah!" and they both lauaghed to reveal big yellow gaptoothed smiles set in pale, ugly, tunafish-colored gums. Little do they know that Spike is no coword. Even though hed get his ass kicked, he woud fight them both together if need be. A second later Spike came out of the barn with the shotgun and fired it ovor their heads. This instantly changed things. This scaried the hell out of the two visitors and they shook and blubbored with fear almost as bad as Junior.

"Welcome to Texas, USA," said Spike, "Where our right to bare arms came from a desire to chase pompous Eurotrash the hell off our farms."

One of them screamed, "Nein! Nein! Vee have heard of your people's love of firearms!", while the othor, deeper voiced and more robotic one cried, "Vee release our bowels mit fear in der Pantzen, und beg you spare us!"

Hans and Fritz got the hell out of there as fast as they coud while Spike hollored at them he was keeping their money, PLUS the car, until no physicol damage was proved to his wondrous and irreplacable turkey. Screaming also that arround here, we don't hit animals: exept the one in the trailer.

In their nervousness the Germans backed their rented Tahoe and car carrier into the trailor a few times, denting both, (though our trailor was so full of dents who the hell cared). It took allot of turns to get out as all the while Spike sadisticolly hollered at them while letting the shotgun off every minute or so that he hoped theyd indeed crap in their pants in the car, in which case the rental company they had to return it to woud give them an even harder time than thay gave Spike about the polluted seat of the Trabant.

Finaly as they drove off we coud hear even louder the sound of the Giant Platform Ass Fan blowin like crazy on the otherside of the house. We ran over there to see a scene of human torture I will never forget for the rest of my life.

" Men's shirts, short skirts: Whoa - OH - oh..."

It was poor Uncle Zeke. He was standing on the fan or shoud I say, two inches above it. The fan was on in the FOWARD position and blowing very very hard. You'd think that fan woud of blown him up the ozone layer, (not that there IS any ozone left dirrectly above Granfather's bathroom). Howevor Zeke seemed to be stuck on the fan, hovoring just above it. Looking closely I coud see how: There were a dozen or so Number Three bluefish hooks, big suckers near as large as coat hanger tops, impailed thruogh the thick rubber soles of his size seventeen orthopedic bathroom slippers. There was a gash on his head, and fresh blood on the alunimum window sill of the bathroom window, easily illustrating that Zeke had dove out the window, landed on the fan, and now was hooked to its steel grate by whoever had stuck those hooks through his shoes.

And who coud that be?

There in bathroom window just above was the evil face of Granfather, calmley peering out and smokin a cigarate. His smug Clinton face looked even more smug than ever, and the blue tie, still arround his pencil monkey neck flapped joyfully in the breeze of the fan.

Meanwhile Zeke flailed helplessley as the violent gale of air from below blew him upword. His dress -- did I mention he was wearin a red dress? -- billowed up from below as he desperateley swung his arms downword as hard as he coud against the rising blast, and the parts of the skirt he coud not grab puffed out where his giant lankey arms failed to reach, whipping and snapping in the massive wind like a cheap vinyl American flag shamefully left outside in a hourricane.

Music played from a laptop - (coud it be MY laptop? My previously Tilde-jammed laptop?) that Granfather had balanced on the windowsill next to him: it was the scratchey strains of a sound file captured off the Web whose limmited technology coud never come close to marring the honey-voiced words of the lovely goregeous and talented Shania Twain singing her hit recording, "Man! I Feel Like A Woman"

I recongnized the dress Uncle Zeke wore as the Marilyn Monroe get-up belonging to Tilde. This was the costume she originaly planned to wear for Dress-Up Day, but in poor judgement declined in place of a Jay-Low Britney Spears alternative. I later learned that Tilde left the dress here during that emergencey PROBLEM of hers..

"Hepp me! Hepp me! Its the fumes of Chernoble attacking mah manly glands!", Uncle Zeke creid, as he billowed and fluffed and reeled like Marilyn Monroe on the updraft of a sewer grate, desperately trying to cover his crotch with his hands in order to prevent infection (thanks to a full-of-crap yarn by Granfather) of what Zeke believed woud surely be a much more long-lasting malady than any "Seven Year Itch."

Granfather didnt know the words but hapilly nodded his head as best he coud to the music under the slowly cracking layors of polyurethane. Especialy the parts where Shania goes, "Whoa - OH - oh.." ...before singing: "Realy go wild-yeah!, doin' it in style!".

How Granfather did it