Walter Miller's Home page

Screuw the bandwidth, is what I say.

Late-May/Early June 1998

Speciel Extra-Exaggorated Edition Update!

Page 5 of 8


Granfather's reacction

At first we thuoght Granps woud retalliate at Zeke for the insult, for exampol, perhapps by hurling a wet lungie at him, which is de rigour for the beastly geezer. But instead sudenley he gripped his stomock, his pissy yellow eyes rolled back, and a look of extreme worry washed ovor the old basterd's horrificly ghastley Kimodo dragonlike face.

"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.

Undorneath our home

We dont realy have a basement but there is a hatch in the laundrey room floor which leads to a tornado shelter. There is only room for three peoplle down there. Me and Granfather were needed to go down below because we knew where the weakest parts of the floor were. Rikpe, the third criptozoologist, was the youngest and the strongest of the three, and so he agreed to go down into the shelter with me to help me put up a coupel of those steel lolly colunms to keep the building steadey for when Ground Zero hit a second time in just 10 minnutes...which, as we stood arround B.S.ing, quickley became 8 minutes. In case you dont know, a lolly colunm is sort of like a portable piller and they sell them at the Home Depot. Many of our sheds and barns which are full of Granfather's collected crap have lollies shoring up floors which woud othorwise collapse.

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.

More about this new "heartless" discovory

I had wrote in the past that years of study have concludded that Granfather's DNA was made up of four equal parts: Human, Primate, Repptile and "Unexplainned" DNA. Well, half of the "unexplained" genes in the old basterd's makeup have ben found to be 100% insect DNA. The thing that appears to look like a "heart" in his chest X-rays is realy a rudementary thorax. Yet he also has ruddimentery gills in his neck.

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.

But even still there was enuogh for him to sing and dance abbout.

I dont remmember all the lyrics but part of it appears below. The old bastord sang it by screamming at the top of his lungs with a cigarete clentched tight in his teeth to the tune of "If I Only Had A Heart" from the Wizord Of Oz:

I'm a monstrous creation
Lacking circulation
And every kindred part
(Toot-toot, toot-toodly-toot)

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
(Toot-toot, toot-toodly-toot)

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
(Toot-toot, toot-toodly-toot)

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!

With just four minnutes to go...

Right aftor the song ended, the next thing you know, Granfather's girlfreind, the female version of James Carvile jumped down below the trapdoor to join us in the celler; (not actualy jumped, but slinked down, really; sort of in the same slithory way that a raccoon turd surreptitiously slides off a tin silo roof on a summer's day when you know it is up there but are just not paying atention to it, to splat down on the hot pavement where you are initially upset that it is there in the first place, but aftor a few seconds you can only conclude to yourself: Thank God that danm thing didnt land in my drink.).

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.

Two minuttes to go...