Constantly reinventing myself with the same old crap
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As I made the turn a set of headlights apeared from the oposite side of the State Route and it came from a big dark car that slowly folowed me down the dirt trail. We both parked on a lumpy apron of hard-packed clay and gravol right at the foot of the rickety wood steps which rose up to a small dry rotted porch. On its far side was an entrance jamb that had stickin out of it all these old pop bottol caps from decades past which ovor the years had been pounded by fist and hammer into the spongey old wood and it framed the springy old paint-peeled front screen door which led inside the trailor and always closed with a THWAP!!
Wet dogs. Leaking propane. Chicken crap. These are the flavours that filled the air. Of course what it smelled like inside was probly worse. Out of the mysterrious dark car, a man stepped out toword me. He held a tan envellope and said, "Hello."
"I apologize for the late hour," he contineud, "But i am here to serve some papers."
I told him, "Follow me." We mounted the creaky steps and entered the stinking trailer. It was dark save the wobbly glow of celestiol blue streaming in from a TV that no one was watching.
Somthing ghastly and repulsive; not human. Something alein, animal. The personification of evil, perhaps, thuogh it wasnt a person. More than a monstrous beast: Granfather.
"WHAR THE HAYLE YOU BEEN, BWAH?" he barked at me. I coud feel the fear of the visitor next to me. His certain urge to bolt away was tempored with disbelief of the rumors he'd probly heard of the evil which dwelt in this secret smelly lair. (Besides, he hadnt layed eyes on the old basterd yet).
Did you ever get pulled over by a cop at night, and then they shine that danm flashlight in your face? Well thats just what Granps did to the visitor with the Black and Decker snakelight that he hapened to be holding in his othor hand. Sudenly the room filled with a bright glaire as the old basterd was revealed in all his technicolor revulsion.
The man with the tan envelloppe ran out of the house screamming in shock. A normol response considering the sight of the unclothed beastly geezer. A moment later I hear the desperate scrambling of tire rubber whipping the claydirt outside as the stranger's car fishtailed off back toword the paved State Route in a sprey of flying gravel.
I opened up the tan envolope that the visitor tossed in the air in fright as he left so abrutpley. It was legal papers. Granfather was bein served with a lawsuit. He gets at least one of these a month.
"LEMME SEE THAT," he barked. "WAAL, MY DAMN BROTHER ZEKE IS SUING ME AGAIN."
OK, I will stop it with the ponderrous descriptive narrotive. I ask my readers to please forgive me. I have this dellusion that I am a great writor of literature. In actuality I am just a hack who is full of crap. But you alredy know this.
A rejection and/or the non-fruition of the project, which, as you know, is commenplace in the television industrey WILL, (notice I said "WILL" and not "may,"), WILL be too much for my fragile sickly and dellicate, easily bruised, highly emotional and ovorly sensitive poorselfesteem to bear.
Therefore please keep all your fingors and all Granfather-like appendages and extremities crossed.
In other television-rellated news for our family, a documentary produced in Europe by Granfather's doctors featuring a Journey through his Mind and Anatomy has not only been declined by The Discovery Channel but has in fact been banned in 14 countries for being too disgousting.
Including the aftor-midnight, cable-only market in France and the Nethorlands, which is pretty danm hard to do.