Its always somthing.
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As calm as he coud the poor lawman told Granps that he woud haveto calm himself down or else there'd be no choice but to contact the State Agricultorol office, who woud have to send ovor some wildlife rangers, who, under normil circumstances deal with angry, out of controle dairy bulls and rabid range mustangs; and, of course we all know that the only remedy for these wild beasts is a rifle dart in the ass after which they are loaded onto a cage truck and broght to the cement block impound near the railroad yard where the freight train whistol in the middol of the night drowns out the wailing mournfull cries the bucking, thrashing creatoures make in pain as when withuot anesthessia the traveling court-apointed-$23,333-a-year vettorinarian's assistent is reqiured under court order to peform on them surgicol castration.
(Which of cuorse wasnt true at all but the Sherif only said to shut him up.)
"Now then," the sheriff calmley drawled, "We wouldn't want to have that happen, do we, Granpy?"
Granfather's evil face turned paled to a diaper-pail pale as he imediatly stopped cryin and his viggorrously snapping jaws stopped moving in a shocked wide open agape possition.
"HELL NO, I WOUDN'T SHERRIF," he grumboled.
The Sheriff then said in his calm, serene voice "Waal, I reckon that takes care o'THAT," and also added that perhapps we both (my brothor and me) shoud get out of the house for a while and leave the old basterd alone.
"Kin I go too, Sheriff?" Junior begged. The sheriff said that Granfather woud haveto decide.
"I DONT GIVE A DANM," said the old basterd.
"Y'ALL WILL GIT LESS VITTLES WITH THREE O'YALL SPLITTIN A SUPPER ON THET FIFTY BUCKS ANNYWAYS."
If you remembor in one of my recent updates I wrote how 9 years ago Granfather left a $50 bill to his familly, (scotch-taped to his "video Will") so they coud go out to a fancy supper after his funerol. After comin out of the coma last month the old basterd initialy agreed to let us still go out to celebraite, but then the chiseling SOB renegged and said he wanted the danm money back.
Granfather made some sort of pattronizing, condescending pontificol statement about how, "Insted of mourning muh death y'all kin cellybrate my life."
Yeah, right. The oppossite of that statement is more like it.
My brother quickley packed his things up, because as soon as this supper was over he told me he wanted me to drive him to the airport. He was gettin the hell out of there and goin back home to Califonia. He was even willing to pay the full last minute fare.
"Mabye if we carry out the old basterd's best wishes, he really will die," my brother said.
Junior like I said had the flu and the whole ride over he was sneezing and hackin up lung meat in the car. It was realy disgousting. He has an extremly thick beard and stuff is always gettin coght in it like peas and peices of cheese. Poor Junior is not an inteligent guy. He has the convorsational ability of a Teletubby and the I.Q. of a burnt stump. He is like in his 50s and I know him my whole life. He is loyal to Granfather by doing oddjobs around our trailor. But Granfather abuses and scaires the hell out of Junior too.