Screuw the bandwidth, is what I say.
Page 5 of 8
"MAYDAY!" Granfather cryed, "MAYDAY!"
"CRUCIFEROUS VEGETABLE BOMB, TEN DEGREES OFF STARBOARD, READY TO HIT AT 23:51 HOURS!"
Oh, crap, that was only, like 10 minuttes away. Madison quickely asked Granfather if this was indeed anothor "time delay" dischargde due to his piggish ingestion of the putrid greens. The bastord said, "YO, YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT, HOMES."
Blankenship ran up to me and shook me, shoutting in his clipped Scots brougue, "Aye, Lad. How's the structurol integrity of this trailer?"
I told him it was prettey good I geuss. Which was sort of a lie. I'd seen Granfather cause dammage to this poor trailor "with no hands" so to speak, and so I was embarassed to admit it....
All of the cruel laughtor directed at me which started in this period of Mid-May did not stop until now, the first week of June. I am talking abbout how my co-workers at Cyberblop mocked me for my idea of the Catfish Cam(TM).
Well nobody is laughing now. Let us flash ahead from that fatefull night to the present for a moment. We are all on the boat right this very moment as I write these words, crowded arround a fuzzey black and white monitor, while a fat hairy guy who gets $75 an hour, (yes, $75, who the hell does he think he is, Bill Gates?) works the Virtual Reallity grabber glove thingy.
They are all here. Me. Junior. Cathyann. Granfather's girlfreind. (Well, ALLMOST everyone is here). My boss is here, claiming credit for the whole danm thing. Big clumsey Uncle Zeke is here, and everry time he plods across the cabin with his lumbering stoop to take a leak in the unisex, the craft pitches on the still waters. Our compeny's client, who runs that sporting goods store, they are here too.
So are those 2 mean peoplle who will not hook me up to the Cyberblop e-mail systam and asign me passwords while claiming 'ITS NOT MY JOB.'
And so is The Lady Who Screamms At Everyone, who now this very minutte is screaming at poor Junior, our simple-minded nieghbor, (who dosent even work for her), and Junior is crying and blubboring because he dosent like it when peoplle scream at him, especialy a womon, and especialey infront of people. Uncle Will, wrapped in blankets and still clinging to life, is curled up on this pukey looking couch cushion that no one knows where it came from and is weakly sputtoring out in a raspy hiss, "Find it! FIND it, you dumb pointy-head computer wing-nut sumbitches!"
So there we were, standing in the pantry, looking at Granfather squatted on the floor like a danm beast from the zoo with his moulth covored with pre-masticated rotton salad greens, knowing that we all had ten minutes to get our asses out of there beffore the second giant Time-travelling fart bomb will hit at preciseley 11:51 PM. Blankenship, who was actualy well versed in architectoure as he was in the sceintific study of Granfather-like mythicol beasts, offered a suggestion. He said that we shoud all go downstairs into the basement and try to shore up the structurol supports beneath the trailer.
The only problem is that Ripke is the sceintist who is most frightenned and grossed out by Granfather. He dosent like to be with him when the other two criptozoologists are not there. Also, this recent discovory earlier in the day that Granfather has no heart or circulatorrey system was especialy disturbing for him. Granfather coud sence this, and as soon as we were down there alone he started mocking poor Ripke.
Granfather spends most of the time in a wheelchiar, but often he walks with the use of an alumnimum walker, or a couple of canes. Pulling himself as upright as he coud, he began dancing a little jig.
"LOOK, YOU SMART-ASS MONKEY DOC," he growled at Ripke. "GRANPY KIN DANCE, AN' WITH NO HEART!"
Then Granfather started hollering up the hatch at his girlfreind.
"DARLIN'! GIT YER ASS OVER HERE! GRANPY'S CALLIN' YOU, DARLIN'!"
Seconds later the frightening shrewish squinting face of the femaile James Carvill slithored over the trapdoor opening, and peered in with an oily bloodthirstey smirk.
"Heah I is," she hissed.
"DARLIN', PUT MUH RIVERDANCE DISK ON THE CD PLAYER," he crowed, while rippin off his T-shirt so he was totalley bare chested, "GRANPY'S GONNA DO THE MICHAEL FLATLEY THANG FOR THIS HERE POMPOUS-ASS APE DOCTOR."
Granfather proceaded to dance a jig to the peppy Irish music as poor Ripke held his ears. His face darkened and finaly crumpled up into sobs as the evil abusive old bastord launched into another tune which the genious bastord instantly composed, which cellebrated the latest horrific discovery about him--the one that grossed out poor Ripke the most.
All of this is too gross to talk abbout. Mabye in another update. Besides, Granfather brags boasts and revels in each repulsive discovory, and I dont want to indulge him. Third-class Being bastord.
I'm a monstrous creation
And every kindred part
While the real Tin Man is rusting
I am so much more disgusting
'Cause I haven't got a heart
Ha! Ha! Ha!
I am gross and I'm repulsive
So savagely impulsive
I don't know where to start
Thanks to years of beastly breeding
In my chest there's nothing beating
'Cause I haven't got a heart!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Oh, I utterly don't have-a
Frikkin' Vena Cava
Or Arteries or veins
I'm a freakish old anomaly
of missing cardiology,
I haven't got a pulse, and I offend and I repulse because I haven't got a heart...
HA! HA! HA!
And in no time she was there dancing an Irish jig with her boyfreind, (the bastord). And suddenly so was Cathyann in the celler, who had also climbed in, landing hard and feet first. (Yuck: she was tryin to dance the Lambada with me), and all 5 of us sqeezed in this tornaddo shelter only big enuogh really for 3 people.