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The Summer 2001 Update

Page 44 of 50

As Zeke's car aproached on the rutted road Granfather inpatientley howled, "FASTER YOU DUMBASS!" to our poor Junior who undor threat of pain hurried to fully dress the beast in the Robe and Headdress before Zeke walked in: Not easy considering the semi-permannent pose.

Low shuffling scrapes up the creakey steps grew as giant Zeke stooped his head to enter the trailor. He recoiled in horror as there was the smugly seated, sagaciously sattisfied Granp-as-Clinton, IN THE SACRED ROBE AND HEADDRESS.

Zeke's jaw dropped. "How'd you git that on? All posed froze in plastic an' such?"

"QUESTION IS, HOW'D I GIT IT OFF YOU, CONSIDERIN' YOUR FROZED POSE?

"Say whut?"

"THAT OF LIVIN' YER WHOLE DANM LIFE WITH YER HAID UP YER ASS!"

As Zeke fretted in angry blustor, Granfather bragged how he forced Junior to steal the clothes from the dryor while Zeke slept.

"YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE," sniffed Granfather. "'COURSE, WHEN I SNOOZE, I OOZE. ASK 'BLACKTOOTH' OVER THAR. HE'S THE ONE WHUT CHANGES MUH DIAPER."

Granfather lowered his voice to a snake's hiss, "WHICH IS WHY I INTEND TO WEAR THESE HERE GARMENTS TO BED: BE-SOILING, BE-STAINING AND BE-SOTTING THEIR SECRET-SOCIETY-SACREDNESS WITH MAH DRIPPY, LEAKY, STANKY..."

Granfather's victorey speech was cut short by a loud ellectric whirring noise from outside.

"WHUT'S THAT NOISE? WHUT THE HAYLE'S THAT GOLLDANG CONSARN NOISE?" he hollored nervously. I reckognized it as the sound of the giant platform fan we use by the septic tank.

"WHEEL ME TO THE BATHROOM WINDOW SO'S I KIN SEE WHAT'S GOING ON, DAGNABBIT!"

Junior moved the vile beast, and we all four crowded by the toilet to see that Spike had removed the frontseat of the Trabant, and had lain it upside down on the steel grate that covored the five foot diametor platform fan. Turning the fan on, the car's uphoulstry shuddered with the violent sucking action.

"WHUT THE HAYLE YOU DOIN' WITH MAH FAN, BWAH?" Granfather hollored.

"I'm suckin the stink out of my Trabant!" yelled Spike back.

"THAT FAN'S TO BE USED FO' MAH ASS ONLY!" he howled.

"Thanks to what you did to my danm car, that's what I'm using it FO'!" Spike screamed ovor the blasting din. He then threw a switch, and the giant threefoot long fan blades slowed, and then reversed dirrection. Spike had secured the carseats to the fan with bunjee cords and if he hadnt they woud of freaken blew all over the yard. That is how strong that danm platform fan is.

"Now I'm power drying all that foam inside. This car has to travel soon," said Spike, "And don't worry the fan won't break."

Granfather frowned and looked very upset. "IT AIN'T THAT IT'LL BREAK: I KNOW IT WON'T. ...IT'S JEST THET I DON'T WANT TO SHARE IT WITH YOU."

Spike snarled "Why not?", to which Granfather screammed back in a sprey of brown spittle at the top of his lungs with a cigarete clutched tight in his teeth, "CAUSE I'M A SELFISH SUMBITCH, YOU SUMBITCH DUMBASS!"

By now I have had enuogh of my danm family.

By now it was evening. I'd missed a whole day of work. I went back into my room, and logged onto my computer (NOT the laptop, my old desktop), just to distract myself by checkin my email.

Oh, YUCK

At some point Granfather had been using it. Granfather has his own laptop but the creepy beast always intrudes on my stuff too. Any machine he uses will accrue, within its first hour of use, a mess of spit and snot and tobaco juice and GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE spattored allover the screen, and, you think THAT'S bad, considor the keyboard, a veritable ecosystem of eye poop, mucusy nodules, dandruffy dander, ear crumbs and horibly disgousting big black thick coarse curl-topped bulb-tipped oddbent wiggly hairs. I have learned to surf the web holding two large pencil erasors.

There in my mailbox was a small bright note to my pittiful trajic life. It was an email from somone in the Aquisitions Department of one of the TV networks. Yes, he was writing to see if anyone had comitted yet to "Walter Miller's Homepage: The TV Show" cause in a few months they WANTED US TO PITCH IT AGIAN!!!

As you know last year it was optionned and we pitched it to some networks. Two of them got close but then stuff hapenned and they did not buy. The option expired and we are available again. My heart started poundin like crazy.

Mabye the 20-odd-year long pittiful streak of my life was coming to an end.

I called up Stu's cellphone imediatly since he is one of the managing partners of the project.

"Hello Stu!" I said exitedley.

"Dude," said Stu glumly. "They greyed out my tits, man. Can you beleive it? Freakin Local Access Cable TV prudes. If this was New york or L.A., or even Dallas, they woudnt have..."

I interupted, "Stu did you get the email?" Stu said he did, and he appollogized for his uncharracteristic melloncholy. He said he was right now sittin in the hot tub of his condo, soaking himself from a very active day that included an arrest, some romance, swimming a raging swollon river, and vaulting ovor a couple of highway roadblocks. I asked him if he was hurt.

"Nah, nothing serious," Stu said, "Just some pulled muscles, some briused loins and chops. Listen, Walter, I need a drink." Stu sugested we meet a road house out on the state route for some beers. Also he told me to bring the laptop with me, cause he had an idea about getting it to work again.

I said, "I dont WANT it to work agian," which I really had no right to say, since the thing wasnt yet paid for.

"Just bring it with you. I'll take care of it," said Stu. Hmm, Ive heard those words beffore from Stu. But we talked some more and he seemed eagor to meet for a few cold ones.

And I felt eagor to help a friend get thru a diffocult time.

Of course, I have codependencey problems of my own. Its the reason I cannot stand Tilde so much: I am like her. My needy feelings of self-worth are soothed by a coumpulsion to want to help others.

Yes I know. It is sick.

By the time I left my room to go meet Stu, Granfather and Uncle Zeke were calmley watchin Larry King on TV, which was odd considdering how much they hate each others friggin guts. When he saw me, Granfather quickley tapped the remote with his tounge back to the Local Acess station to houmiliate me. A sharp gassy staccatto crackolled from beneath his regal robes, which puffed, as billowing up from below a large melon-sized cloth-wrapped fart worked its way up the fancy burgundey fabric, finaly fluffing out arround the coller of the tunic in a deadly acrid stink.

Uncle Zeke for some reason was just as motionless as his fiberglassed brothor. He stared at the TV without looking up as for the umpteetnth time, they showed the tape of me and Stu gettin busted.

"Whoever then perverts is, they orta be put away fer life," Zeke grumped.

I went outside to see Junior helping Spike to furriously fumigate the poor stinking Trabant for its new Teutonic ownors, this time with expensive bristol brushes and sterile-grade sodium powdor.

"The Germans are comin! The Germans are comin!" Junior wailed in terror.

At the roadhouse

There's nothin fancy about this place. Just anothor plywood, tin roofed watoring hole, with cheap beer and peanut shells allover the floor. I joined Stu at a small table. But there was an unexpected supprise: That Local Access cable news program, ever looping over and over agian on the TV over the bar NOW HAD A NEW TOP STORY.

It was somthing along the lines of: "A 28 year-old local man is being soght as a dangerrous fugitive on multiple charges, including assault, unlawful flight... ...Police say that THIS man, DuWayne Beuregard Earldee Poteet, escaped from...

...and right then as the anouncer said these words, a big childlike police sketch that looked allot like Huckle the Pig from the Richard Scarry books was splasched on the screen under the word: WANTED!

"Aw man, now how the hell did THAT happen?" Stu burst out slammin his fist down. I began explainning what Cathyann told the cops about HER being Stu, and STU being DuWayne, and how her tiny brain must of got confused durring her police interview, but all Stu seemed interested in was the graphicol representation of the "suspect."

"That's not even a drawing. That's a color lazer from a children's book fan site sombody printed off the Web, for cripes sake," he huffed. Wanting to cheer him up I said weakley, "I always liked Huckle, you know."

Stu looked offended. "What's the deal Huckle?" he creid, "In every book, youve got that Swiss-looking street scene. With the cat running the beauty parler, and Miss Honey the Bear teachin school, and Lowly Worm driving the taxi..."

I interupted, "It's just a KIDS book, Stu," but he'd allready whipped himself up into a froth,

"...And then, there's butcher: Workin the salami slicer. With sausages hung behind him. Who'se whackin Westphalia ham with a cleaver? The gaddam pig!"