Walter Miller's Home page

Delivorring just abuot the same amount of violence as television, but a hellof allot less sex.

Late-May/Early June 1998

Speciel Extra-Exaggorated Edition Update!

Page 3 of 8


Poor Uncle Will

Granfather's older brother was still lying there on the gurney in the ambulence and gasped and shuddored with the pail blue tinge of inpending death on his shrivoled face like that corpse being hauled arround in a wagon in that awful Faulkner novel I cant think of the name of. Uncle Will told the amboulence driver that after they carryed him into the house, he woudnt be needing them any longer becuase he expectad to die very soon. Well dont you know, as always is the case with my danm family, they start fighting abbout money. Uncle Williem said that they had agreed to a diferent price and he strained to hollar at the ambulence driver with all the dying veins on his poor withoring neck popping with emotion. The driver seemed very pissed becuase the diference of money in qeustion was, like, a hundret bucks.

Then Granfather said to the driver, "STICK AROUND THAR'S PLENNY WHISKY AT THIS HERE PARTY," and he also said, (loud enuogh for poor Uncle Will to hear), that as soon as Willy kicks off, (which shoud be soon), to feel free to go thruogh his pockets to get his fee.

I was so hoummiliated that a stranger had to be exposed to such strife and hatred in my familly. Uncle William grasped my shirt with his tiny withored fist and with strenghth that supprized me for a man so close to death, pulled himself up to peer in my face.

The thing that was on his mind was the legal ownorship of that item I wrote about beffore which is a point of contention between the brothors: A small crown-shaiped pot-metol bumper atachment that Granfather stole from the Duke of Windsor's royal car back in 1960. Suposedly Granfather traded it to Uncle Will a few years back, but then on a visit to his house, Gramps stole it back from him.

"I want thet thar crown! Git it for me, boy!" my uncle whispored. It broke my heart, but i had to say to poor Uncle Will that as soon as Granfather made that necklace out of it two months ago, ITS BEEN MISSING.

Inside the trailor

The inside walls of our home were scortched black. Madison and Ripke, two of the cryptozoologists, clustored arround a laptop trying to figoure out the quantum dynamics of ecaxtly how an intestinol discharge can travel throuhg time. They asked Granfather how he knew that this fart woud violate the Space Time Continuom by ecxatly 35 minuts, not more, and not less, and he said he just had a "gut feeling."

The old basterd also seemed a bit supprised at the whole thing.

"I DONE PAID FER THEM GREENS WITH CYBER-CASH," the bastord mused half aloud.

"I'D O'THUNK ANY RESULTANT FUMES I'D MAKE WOULD BE CYBER-GAS."

A dire warning

The third sceintist, the one named Blankenship, scraiped some black cindors off the wall with a small scalpol and placed them in a tiny plastic bag, while he was on the phone with the University.

"It's rancid Iceberg lettuce allright," he told me, "but a species from eons in the future."

Blankenship put his hand ovor the telephone receiver and, practicaly in tears, went on to say in a very sombor voice that we shoud hide the box of rotted greens because if the old basterd ate the rest of it, our lives might be at risk. Somtimes i wondor if these guys arent eithor ovorly drammatic or else as full of crap as Granfather.

Meanwhile, Granfather luaghed and laughed and rudely made fun of Blankenship's accent becuase he is from Scotland. If you ever come to our house, and you have an acent, WATCH OUT becuase Granfather will make fun of it in a more deadly accurrate way than you might of thoght.

Outside the trailor: More dammage.

Any Granfather-related disastor is first calcullated by the damage to peoplle in the vicinity's abillity to breathe. Thus, an erruption of our cesspool.

We used to have a septic system here, but its charred remmains due to one old maniac's summer-long addiction to a new diet of strictley dairy and high-fat spicy foods have renderred it inopperable. And so, we received a grant from the State, the County, and the EPA to build a new $8,000 poured cement cesspool abbout 20 feet from the house. Well this thing now had a crack in the cemment and brown stinkey waste now bubbled up from it. But it looked like onlyt minor damage, and so we werent very worried abbout it. At least I was not worreid. Perhapps in retrospect i shoud of been.

However, this added odor was somwhat tolerable to party guests, mainly because Granfather himself actualy smells worce than any cesspool coud ever smell; Even his own cespool, if you can immagine that. I cant explian it but its true.

A smaller, second exploasion

Also, the blast caused the collapse of one of the five structoral supports under the trailer. Each structoral suport consists of a stack of cinder blocks. The cindor blocks fell, and landed on a gasoline can that some un-named iddiot left stored undor the trailer. (That idiott's name is GRANFATHER).

The cemment blocks must of scraiped along making sparks and the can was just a tiny bit filled and so was mostly full of flammoble vapour. So it blew like a loud bomb.

Atleast it was painless.

The onley casualtey was Fluffy Spice, one of our yard hens. It is imposibble to describe. Immagine three orders of KFC Cornel's Crispy Strips delivored at Warp 8 onto a billboard-sized area of the side of the barn. Somthing like that. On this horroble nihgt that Fluffy Spice was the first to give her life.

The party rocked on

After the smoke dissappaited, people cought their breath, and people's noses became acustommed to the small leaking puddol of the cesspool outside which wafted in, the festivitties of the Last Eppisode of Seinfeld Party went on. Big Uncle Zeke saved the day by stamping out the small fire in the kitchon that came from the nefarrious flying fart from the future with his giant Size-17 EEEE clown shoes. There were all sorts of Sinefeld-related foods there that Cathyann and Granfather's girlfreind prepared, like Junoir Mints, soup, muffin tops and pudding skin singles. Also allot of cuban cigars like Kramer smokes. Also the whole night evoryone was sayin all sorts of wittey Sienfeld things like "Not that theres anything WRONG with it," and also "NO SOUP FOR YOU!"

More guests arive

When I came outside, there were 4 of 5 new peoplle there, and these I recogknized as local folks from this extremely weird AOL Chatroom that the old bastord sometimes is on late at night. A few of the peoplle in the chatroom are kind of smart, and a few months ago, they figoured out who Granfather is, and where he lives. And so everey few weeks they get togethor for drinks and other nasty behhavior.

I was not having a good time and so I went in my room and logged on my e-mail. I saw that there were allot of notes from the domain of the new compeny i work for, 'Cyberblop'. There were like, 40 messages from all kind of peoplle at the company. At first I was pleased becuase I had asummed that NOW FINALLY I had access to their danm internal network.

But i was wrong

Yes, the notes were all adressed to my personal e-mail address. I looked at all the notes of all 40 or so, only one was actualy addressed to me.

It was a note from my boss, and it was abbout:

The Catfish Cam(TM)

Remember i wrote in my last update abbout how all my co-workers at that dumb web content compeny I work for, 'Cyberblop', (not their real name), all laughad at me in a meeting? It was a brainstorm meetting where I presented the concept for somthing called a Catfish Cam. One of our cleints we are designing a website for sells fishing stuff and I thoght that a camera to go down into the murkey depths woud be a good idea. Peoplle coud log onto the website to see updated shots of giant mutant Texas catfish.

All the rest of the notes were carbon-coppies, of all of my co-workors makin fun of me behind my back.

The one from my boss had a subject line of:

READ ME FIRST

...and it read in part:

Mr. Miller,
You are the biggest screwup it has been my priviledge
to work with. Of course I mean that affectionately ;-)
Here is what your co-workers throughout Cyberblop
are saying about your Catfish Cam idea.

What a jerk. In the first line alone he spelt "privilege" wrong plus he ended the sentance with a preposition. OK, I am no great spellor, but this guy is somones's boss, for cryin out loud. Plus he is only like, 26 which is way to young to be somone's boss aneyway.

I have to tell you my feelings were hurt. There is nothing that hurts more that peoplle saying things behind your back to make fun of you, and then when you end up hearing whan they said--or in this case, reading 40 exampols of a buletin board thread that everyone knew i coud not see, and was not a part of.

Now I too ended a sentence with a prepposition but you know what i dont give a danm.

Everyone allways picks on me. And it is NOT good for my poorselfimage problem