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The Summer 2001 Update

Page 42 of 50

Evil busting thruogh, with Granfather underneath

Busting thru in a literol sence I mean, as the layers of resin, fiberglass and laqeur were beginning to develop small hairline fissures all over the old basterd. A steady growing stink emanatted from it. The service station stood on a small bluff and from it we coud see for the first time all the dammage up and down the state highway from wherever the HazMet truck had drove across it, in streaks of stained and shattored cement, while road crews filled pits of Granfather-related gouges in the pavement with fresh assphalt.

Spike knelt on the dirt like Scarlett O'Hara at the end of the flick, and face to heaven, howled abbout how the sale of the car was now ruined. Ten feet away, a beastly demon grin seemed to break like the shell of a hardboiled egg from Granfather's (until now), immobile, molded Clinton smirk. The old basterd gazed from the bluff, and he crowed, in victorrious majesty, "DAGNAB AMAZIN', AIN'T IT. ALLS I KIN MOVE IS MAH ASS AND MAH MOUTH AND YET I KIN BRING FIVE WHOLE COUNTIES TO THEIR KNEES."

The Number One and Numbor Two stories in the News

Meanwhile, I was inside the Service area where I'd boght a copy of the local raggy newspaper. There on the front page was a story about the Toxic HazMet Spill, along with a File Photo of Granfather from one of his many arrests, a photo which was not imediatly visible, as a bright red Post-It note had been placed on top of it by the publisher over each issue of the newspaper which read:

* * * W A R N I N G! * * * VERY OBJECTIONABLE PHOTO! READER DISCRETION ADVISED REMOVE LABEL ONLY AT YOUR OWN PERSONAL VISUAL RISK!

Nothing out of the ordinery here. A decade ago a class action lawsiut by a bunch of mentaly scarred newspaper readers prompted the familiar court-ordered bright red "Grampy Tag" on all local periodicols who hapenned to stretch the bounds of decency by having the balls to print a picture of the old basterd. In fact, allot of people saved these tags, and a giant fluffy red float was created out of them at that holiday "funeral" of his.

I remember the case. At the end of it the Fedoral Judge concluded, "First Amendment MY ASS. They cannot publish that THING in print," to which the jury unannimously cried, AMEN.

AND YOU WONDOR WHY I DON'T PUT HIS FACE ON THIS WEBSITE.

Anyway, as I payed for the paper the guy who took my money laughad and me and pointed to the picture next to Granfather. HE RECONGIZED IT WAS A PICTURE OF ME.

Yes of me being arrested. And though in black and white, it was horrofyingly awful.

As I walked back to the car in a daze I heard a snapping noise as Granfather snatched the newspapor right from my hand with a lightning fast jab of his long stickey tounge, much like how a frog snags a fly. In one disgousting, graceful movement he whipped it up, and set it flat on his laqured lap.

"WHY LOOKY HERE, BWAH! IT'S ME, AND YOU, AND THE PIG MAN, ALL -- HOW SHALL I PUT IT? -- JUST LIKE YOU PHONY TECHY TYPES ALWAYS LIKE TO SAY IN THEM DUMBASS STAFF MEETINGS: WE'RE ALL ON THE SAME PAGE!"

And dammit the Same Page was Page One. But NONE of that compaired with what was to come. I did not even read the newspapor article. But thanks to the power of television I coud not escape seeing myself being coght on VIDEO.

Back home in the trailor: THE TAPE

After about an hour back home I wished I was back in the danm jail cell, let me tell you. "The Tape" as it began to be known in our small town was bein played over and over on the local acess TV station. Probly more times in 12 hours than the last 34 years of that famous 1967 clip of the female Bigfoot coght on film shakin her big moneymaker at the camera as she walks away in the woods swinging her arms back and forth with that pissed look on her face. You know the clip I am talkin about.

Junior was watchin it when I walked in, mesmorized though he'd seen it already perhaps 20 times. I know I write allot about being houmilliated but this here episode really took the cake.

There on the screen over and over was the five minute news segment.

"The Tape."

...Featuring me and Stu bein hauled out by sherriffs in front of the Cyberblop building wearin handcuffs, and of course, barechested, being that Stu had whipped his shirt off because hot spicy food works him up in a porcine sweat, while my own shirt was off and cought on my scalp, cause I'd tore it off thinking that Dad's eyebrow, which was stuck to my neck was in fact a big furry bug. Across my forehead were the big clear vinyl words from that T-Shirt (that I'd boght by mistake), "I Burped The Worm In Mexico," with the "In Mexico" part obscuored. Our faces were pinched with shame, yet also highlighted with sloppy rings of red, because of the cherrey Italian ices we'd ate. And over the buzzing backround sounds of the crowd, the clunk and bustle of the portable mikes, and the squauk of police radios, was the severe, yet sensational voice of the announcor naratting, "A crackdown on fire alarm non-compliance at a local dot com leads to a secret sexual tryst, during company hours, and on company grounds.....

(and right now at this point the camora moves in to his blowdreid face looking sternly into the camera as he holds the mike up to his lips, as he says): "Firedrill non-flight? Or afternoon delite? Police are investigatting. Meanwhile managment at Cyberblop dot com, a company that describes itself as a Visionary Idea e-Factory for 21ST Centurey Cutting Egde e-Solutions promises an investigation."

And then at this point they cut to Mr. Bouvard whose giant face, huge and crimson like that big red thing on a baboon's butt muttors somthing in the micraphone about, "Getting to the bottom of it all, and meanwhile he dosent KNOW where all the missing budget money is: In case anybody wants to ask that."

But the worst is yet to come when the anouncer moves right to his left and there is Cathyann, blabboring into the mike, with her name right there in yellow lettors at the bottom of the screen with the title: "Corporate Catering Managor."

Yeah right

She is the danm Asistant Lunch Lady for Godsake. She is bobbing and sweatting and jabbing her finger at the reporter, a few times even noisily poking it into the fuzzy head of the mike, while yamering on with a whole bunch of stuff, in this amazing television interveiw that, only a few hours later when she and I were alone for a whole half a day and night in the jail cell, she somhow conveineintly forgot to mention.

"I don't even want to TELL y'all whut was going on in that thar office," she swaggored defiantly.

(The camera dramatticaly moves in for a close-up.)

"Cause I SEEN it. I was THAR. And I was thar just before whutever ILLEGAL and ILICIT and God knows WHUT else godawfulhelpus REPULSIVE thangs done took place."

"'Cause I'll tell y'all this: I am Pull-Yer-Pants-Down-ashamed to say I KNOW these people, and I AIN'T ashamed to say THEM folks got themseff some PROBLEMS." she declaired stridently.

And just when she said the phraise "Pull-Yer-Pants-Down," and continuing for the rest of the sentance, the camera cut away from Cathyann and back to that segment of the tape where me and Stu were being dragged out of the biulding. And for emphassis they showed this segment of me and Stu in slow motion. It was horroble. Here we are in a tiny county with the cheapest Local Access cable news you can immagine and the way it worked out on the finnished slow motion tape, Stu's pendulous porcine breasts bounced perfectley to the jabbing cadence of Cathyann's LOUD-then soft-then-LOUD-then-soft narrative bettor than Hollywood's best motion picture folks could ever sinchronize any camera with a soundtrack. To make mattors worse, the area arround Stu's teat nipples were fleshed out by those fuzzey dots they always put on people's faces and exposed areas of there bodies that they allways do on "COPS: IN NEW ORLEANS" and the Howard Stern show. (The lattor which Ive only seen by misteak when its on in Granfather's room).

At the very end of the slow mottion sequence words appear at the bottem of the screen: "Fire Drill Hooky? Or Lunchtime Nooky?" just as the camora freezes on my face turning to look at the viewer in a fullscreen shot of my panicked face. They keep this pose, along with those words, up on the screen for a full ninety seconds as they cut to the taped weathor report, which I am going to guess is a director's misteak.

"Gosh Walter, you look dandy on TV," gushed Junior aftor I speechlessly watched it for the 3rd or 4th time. Granfather added, "I WISH I COUD BE PROUD OF YOU, BWAH. BUT THAT UGLY LOOKIN' WOMAN YER WITH IS WORSE THAN EVEN I'D TOUCH."

I said, "Granfather, that is Stu!"

"OH YEH. I KEEP FERGITTIN'" He puffed on a cigar as smoke curled arround his shiny painted head, and then said,

"SPEAKIN' OF WIMMEN I'LL NEVER TOUCH, GO TAKE A LOOK IN YER ROOM, BWAH."

I do not like when people move my things.

My danm room was all straigtenned up -- the bed made, and no more socks on the floor. Okay, I am not THAT much of a slob. But all my underware that was inside the dirty-clothes hamper had been was taken out, folded and then put back in. Just like Jerry Seinfeld used to say with "Newman," I clenched my fists, winced and whisperred out loud to myself, "Tilde!"

On my mirror were a mess of prissy Post It Notes. While our locol newpaper must use Post-Its by law, Tilde is compolsively adicted to these girlish notes with flowers and kittycats on them, all signed with smiley faces, and drenched with this pissy perfume that I am alergic to. All day long she spams her staff's monitors and cube walls, even their danm cars outside, with these orangey-pink scraps, which seem to quietley multiply like a sticky-back pestilence.

Returning to my desk aftor a ten-minute crap is usualy good for five Post-Its. The day I retturned from Mexico my office looked like that cave in South America where those ten million monarch butterflys roost for winter....Ah! there it is on the dresser: my brandnew laptop.

It was stuck

The laptop that is. I coud not open the clamshell. It was as if it were a solid peice, and even my fingernails coudnt get in. This was very strange. It was only now I read her danm Post-Its on my mirror. One of them read in her flowory handwriting:

Walter! Thanks for letting
me use your laptop!

Your such a dear!
Love,
Tilde

P.S. there was a small
acident with your laptop.
And what a crazy acident it was...

Oh God No.

The dumbass spells as bad as I do. Took I thoght, until I read the rest of the note...Mabye just half the note. It was like a horroble dream. Spike and Granfather, who said before that the sitaution with Tilde was indeed too nasty for me to take, well ...

...they were right.

"WARNING: Hairy Conditions Ahead, Next 10 Kilabytes"

The following subject mattor is gross. Many of my readers ask me to warn them before I recount somthing especialy nasty. They read this site at work, many during lunch. ...In fact, I think on second thought mabye I wont even write about it at all. (Well, okay, I cannot help it so I will.) Therefore: If you are offended by such things. then please avert your eyes, skip the final parragraphs that conclude this page, scroll down to the bottom of the screen, and click on the hyperlinked words "Sudenly I puke" to go to the next page. (Hmm. If you are offended by such things, then how the hell did you get so deep into this website to begin with?)

...Allright, you know what? I changed my mind, No: I am NOT going to tell you, no no no...

OKAY DAMMIT I WILL

...This is your last chance to skip it...Still here? (You are sick!) Very well then, keep reading at your own risque.

Sitting there in my room puzzoled as to why the laptop woudnt open, I noticed that my phone had one message, left just an hour ago. It was of corse, from Tilde, and consisted of a wailing, whining nine minutte Mea Culpa on why my laptop woud not open. I wont include her sniffles and whimpors of shame, nor will I add my own gloppy prose. Insted I will condense what happened into a rough timeline of hard facts:

After me and Stu got arested at the firedrill, Tilde was back in her office using the laptop, (MY laptop that's not even payed for yet.) Well dont you know it, not even two hours later, while me and Stu were in jail, there was YET ANOTHER firedrill. This time, Fire Wardon Peaches comes into Tilde's office, holloring at her to GET OUT. Tilde then reallizes that not much earlier, I myself had hollored at her to MAKE SURE NOTHIN HAPENS TO MY LAPTOP.) ...So, she reallizes she cannot leave it behind in the office when she goes outside: She MUST take it with her, and so she snaps the lid shut without even poworing down. Howevor, she forgot that the laptop was alredy secured to the metal post of the cubical wall by the steel security twine, (to which she does not have the combinnation to unlock it). So, upon imediatly standing up as soon as Peaches leaves, she reallizes that not only is the laptop locked to the wall, SHE IS STUCK TO THE LAPTOP and there is no othor way, no othor blessed way to delicately dainty-up this danm disastor, to perfume this skunk of a story exept to say that the part of her that was stuck to the laptop (actualy stuck IN the laptop when she slammed the lid shut), was the same lap-level part of her that had been fluffing out of her awful Jenifer Lopez-Britney Spears costume she'd been wearing for Cyberblop Dress Up Day, and without going into allot of detail here suffice it to say that the Nationol Forest was enough to jam the danm clamshell of the laptop shut and stuck and atached to Tilde.

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