Walter Miller's Hompage

Its amazing that peoplle still read this crap.

Aprill 1999 update

Page 3 of 6

Rathor than crap it out he wanted the grout pile to stay in his gut for a numbor of reasens. The first was so he coud make a drammattic entrence into a courtroom, being rolled in for the jury to see durring the trial of his two brothors for Atempted Murder. Becuase they are the two who put the thing up his ass in the first place. The other reason was because he truly beleived that this woud be his ticket to fame and fortune.

Yes Granfather has had a unique plan for many decaides.

This is it: On the one hand, the old basterd remains virtualy unchanged as a great standord of disgusting reppulsiveness. On the othor hand, at the same time, as our populor culture gets more and more desensitized to things, Evit Itself, (whose name is 'Granfather') becomes more mild by comparrison.

One day the two will intersect, and the basterd's horrific horobleness will become mainstream. And when that hapens the old basterd will cash in.

In fact since my repullsive ancestor has been an anal estuary for grout, Granfather's "exclusive story" was turned down by the Guiness Records Prime Time Show, but hasnt yet been oficialy rejected by that othor new show, "Shocking Behavoir Cought on Tape."

One of the peoplle at the Fox network told us that it is just barely too disgousting for Fox's standords, but in any case told us also to just wait for standords to drop again.

"Biology's Funniest Bloopers"(R)

This is Granfather's idea of a new TV show which each week woud feature only him. No one has decidded to buy it yet. "Nature's Cruelest Tricks" woudnt be a bad name eithor.

Well in any case the very thoght that this thing up his ass woud soon be comming out scaired the hell out of him. Even still I was very happey about it. All during his his ensconcement, Granfather needed extra care and was very ill tempored.

Plus it was inpossible to bathe him.

Litoraly with a Ten Foot Pole

Weve all heard about the proverbbial ten foot pole. Well Granfather stinks so bad from not bein bathed that he coudnt of smelt worse if insted of 900 pounds of grout he was impailed on, he'd been steeped for months on end in a pit of fermented elephent crap. The olny way to clean him off was to get one of those long woodon poles with a giant string mop head atached. You have seen these giant stringy cotten mop heads. When it is clean it looks like an albino guy with dreadlocks. They are the best mops in the world and even still they can only be used one time on Granfather beffore they get too filthey.

I soaked the mop in a pail full of equol parts bleach and airplane soap. This is an extremly dangerrous conbination which makes pure chlorine gas which will scald the skin strait off and burn your lungs. Outside in the yard the dogs howl there frigin heads off.

I set a fan up to blow the fumes away from them but even still they howl. It is the same howl they make as when Granfather is inside "entertaining" some womon he picked up in a local saloon and it is a hot night with the danm window open: They are only dogs but even still they know that somthin awful and gastly and horroble is going on.

How he gets washed

A plumbing contractor came to our house and drilled a two inch drain in the trailor floor in the center of our little laundrey room. On top of this he installed this large three-persen-sized fiborglass shower stall pan that came from salvage when they renovatted the girls lockor room at the high school. I have to roll the basterd over it and sit him in the centor then shove the pole in thruogh the window of the trailer from outside. All the bleach and filth drains into a large containor under the house by way of a PVC pipe beneath the stall pan. Then a big ass HAZMET truck comes to pick it up. You have to remove the skirt from arround the trailor outside to get to it.

Over and ovor I begged him

Granfather, I said, time and agian: PLEASE have that thing removed from your butt.


It didnt even pay to try to mention it neithor, cause each time I would bring it up, the old basterd woud rambol on incessintly on "his personal fantacy" of how he wished it all woud happen:

Four burly nurse orderlies woud crash thru the big wooden doubel doors of the courtroom to the loud gasps of all present, pushing in front of them a rolling gurney upon which Granfather woud be layed out on his back, his scraggley emaciated and allmost fleshless desicatted calves delicately propped on a pair of chrome gynecological exam stirrups which suposedly our scavenging freind Junior, (who is sort of handy), had found in a dumpster behind Planned Parrenthood and soddered to the egde of the wheeled bed.

Covored with a burgundy velvet drape, only Granfather's face woud be visibble as he careened up the courtroom aisle with tears running down his face, his jaw set in a houmiliating shameful grimace, (even though the old basterd is incapabble of shame, and any tears he has are crocoddile tears).

Somwhere in the backround, the opera "I Pagliacci" played on tape, the part where the clown cries as he sings. Sudenly with a drammatic flourrish, the bailiff, (who in Granfather's fantacy is wearin a black cape and a Phantom of the Operra mask and hat), grips the corner of the burgundy velvet covor, and to an explosion of flashbulbs whips it off to reaveal as he layes there quiverring, and inexplicably wearing this red and black harquin jumpsuit, the same one Danny Kay danced arround in in the openning credits of an old film called "The Court Jester" exept with the ass cut away so you coud see the grout goin up him, Granfather, the old basterd himself who cryes loudly, "I...AM...NOT...AN...ANIMAL!"

Actualy he is, he realy is, indeed withuot a doubt hes a freakin animal, take my word for it, but in this peverted dream even the judge is reduced to tears as he sentences Granfather's elderley brothors to 50 years in jail. And wishing they had instead been youngor, more atractive men so while in jail they too coud experrience ass pain as did poor Granpy.

"Ciudado! Ciudado!"

By the way, that HAZMET containor, the one that gets filled from under the shower stall pan holds 80 liters and is red with flourresent triangles on it, and has pictures of skulls all over the sides plus giant labels in both English and Spannish tellin you to stay the danm friggin hell away from it. It costs a couple of thuosand bucks each time to cart it away but the State pays.

But Lordy, on this day The Grout moved!
Our chance to have it takon out!

And I owe it all to Micrasoft Internet Explorer 5.0.

I dont know whats worse, the sound of Granps screamin at Mr. Gate's products, the stink of crusty mattor being scraiped off him in our laundrey room-drain-set-up, or the speceil effects of him listening to the TV in the other room.

On the day of the greatly anticipatted Last Washing and Ass De-Groutment, Granfather was watchin reruns on cable of The Nanny.

One of Granfather's anoyying habits is to repeat every spokon line the Nanny says in her same exact voice. He is extremmly good at it. More than once I have been driven to tears. Also have you evor seen a dog try to comitt suicide by throwin himself under a HAZMET truck. I have and usualy when the Nanny is on.

Howevor on this monday afternoon thanks to it having actualy moved as a result of Granfather's rage at Exploror 5.O, I now reallized my chance to have the basterd's ass disengaged from the volumnuous protrusion of interloping grout.

A big confrontattion