Help! I'm on the Web and i cant get off!
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I looked up, and saw, filling fully half of the trapdoor openning over my head was the long sad face of Blankenship, and he put it all in dire words.
"'Tis a wee puddle a-back, and 'tis a-leakin' from the loo! 'Tis the structural integrity, I tell yeh.
"The strooct-ural in-TEG-gritty!" Blankenship nervously trilled in his Glasgow brogue.
"AW, SHUT THE HELL UP. THIS HERE TRAILER'S AS SOUND AS A DOLLAR," Granfather grumped back up at him, "WHY, GOD HISSELF COUDN'T SINK HER."
Meanwhile I instantley realized that there was about an inch of sewage there below my feet in the storm cellar. But I wasnt worreid. This sort of thing hapenned before. Hell, we have the most active cesspool in Texas. In any event it WAS startin to smell bad in the basement sheltor, and so we all climbed out: Granfather includded. Madison tossed down a nylon rope for me to wrap arround poor Ripke who was in shock, and we lifted him out to safety. Also: Somone gave my ass a little pinch on the way up and i have a feeling it was Cathyann and i did NOT apreciatte it.
"You cant HANDLE the truth..."
"You cant HANDLE the truth..."
Uncle Will was curled next to him on the sofa, still shrivoled up, but amazingley had tore out his food tube. His face was crusted with greazy crumbs, and his voice was oddley stronger than it had been in months and he was waving arround a large emptey yellow foil sack and complaining out loud to no one in particulor:
"I got me the munchies, and I don't give a golldang rats ass that "Olestra may cause abdominal cramping and loose stools." ...Someone go git me anothor bag o'them dagnab chips!"
Meanwhile, poor Ripke was curled in a fetol posittion on the kitchon floor, and was shaking uncontrollobly. Madison was giving him a seddative by needle. Madison looked up at me and said, "Keep the Subject away from Ripke. He's got B.R.S."
No one knows what 'B.R.S.' means ecxept that it is a codename that is used only between Madison, Ripke, and Blankenship for some sort of teribble panicked mania that they somtimes get while working with Granfather. Ripke always gets it the worst. My brother says it stands for 'Bastord Research Sindrome' but that is onley a guess.
The trailor was filled with cigarete (and other) smoke, and through the crowd I saw standing there by the front door, Blankenship in his white coat. He pointed to both me and Granfather, and beckonned us to come over to go outside on the porch deck with him.
As soon as I stepped out the door onto the rickety wood front porch it was like anothor world. The air was still and the noisy din of the party was much more quiet. And then, becomming quietor still, the rowdy mayhem muffled down to complete silence as the flimsy screen door behind me closed with a Thwap!
The three of us were alone. It was calm and peacefull and very foggy out. The sceintist pointed to the western horrizon, and I swear, I saw a small white ghostlike glow moving toword us.
"Thar she comes from the future," said the scientist, softly.
"WAAL, GLORY BE!" crowed Granfather, "IT'S THE ELEVEN-FIFTY-ONE!
"WOO-WOOOOOO!" the old bastord howled like a train whistol. But in a moment we were all silent. The glow grew into a large white mountian sized mirage, almost like a holograph. Blankenship muttored in his Scottish lilt that if we were lucky, it woudnt hit us head on, but mabye scraipe the side instead...
Me, Granfather and Blankenship held onto the porch railing to keep ourselves steaddy. We saw it crush one, and then two of the four remainning cinderblock structurrol supports of the trailer. And then, as qiuetly as it came, the mysterrious white mountain then disappeared to the east.
When it was all gone, i asked Blankenship why didnt it expload, and why was it white? But he didnt know the answor to eithor of those qeustions. Mabye, he suggested, that it was white beccause it arrived in photo negative form. Or, that it came from the future, and as you know aftor sitting for a day or so on the lawn, dog doo turns white.
"I THINK IT HAS SUMPTIN TO DO WITH THE ICEBERG LETTUCE I DONE ET," said Granfather.
It posibly could be, Blankenship postulated: "Aye, we are joost a-scrratching the surface of the scientific dynamics of yer Granfather's mysterrrious Arse," he said, shaking his head sadley.
"She canna' stay afloat with four of the five stroocturol suports gone," he said gravely, "Perrhaps she can with three, but she canna' with four."
Granfather hollared back, clearley angry, "YOU DUMB ASS SCOTSMAN. THIS HERE TRAILER IS UNSINKABLE."
"Aye, but not un-STINK-able. She's made of aluminum, sir. She CAN sink."