Walter Miller's Homepage

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April '99 Update

Page 4 of 6

"I'm OK, your NOT OK

In anothor update a long time ago, (April 1996 to be exact) i wrote abbout how our family had an intervention in order to get Granfather to change his evil behavvoir. An interventtion is when your freinds and loved ones all get togethor to try to get you to change your behavoir. It is a way of putting weight behind an argumment toword that person you want to change. Well irregardless of the fact that Granfather has no freinds and no one loves him it was time for that to happen again.

It is painfull and enbarasing to admit but I have had interventions before. But now it was me who needed weight behind him in ordor to get the old basterd to agree to allow the wieght to extractad out of his behind.

The three criptozoologists, (who are Granfather's doctors), came by and so did the sheriff. We got my Dad on speakorphone from California. Althuogh Dad woud not be in the room with him to actualy smell him, we hoped his words woud contribute to this mountain being moved. In this case, a mountian in Granp's ass we hoped woud be his next "movement."

I also called Junior, our simple-minded nieghbor who lives in town, and despite the fact that Junoir seems to be the last persen around here who actualy thinks of a good idea, he was able to sugest somthing pretty smart: on short notice he called the County Clerk, who you may know from reading pryor updates of mine, is Granfather's sworn enemey.

The plan for the Intervention

Why invite the beastly geezer's ennemy? Granfather is a cruel, cunning and ingenniously wiley old basterd yet in many ways must be dealt with as if he was a stuppid selfish child. Our plan was to sit down with the old basterd to confront him with the fact that if he kept the grout in his ass any longor he might die and try to convince him insted to allow the soothing gentle action of naturol fiber Metamucil(R) take its corse.

First, the County Clerk woud bawl out Granps, and be upset and talk sternley to him. The Clerk and the sheriff woud play a little parler game: The Sheriff woud be the "good cop" and the County clerk woud be the "bad cop". (You have seen this routine many times in poorley written Interogation Room scenes in TV police shows.)

Next, after this, the County Clerk woud leave in an angry yet carefuly scripted huff.

Imediatly after that, the Sherrif woud tell Granfather, "He means business", and also, "Hot danm, was he pissed."

The sheriff woud then explian ways Granfather coud rescue the situattion and not lose face. (Even thuogh, if he ever truly lost that ugley face of his it woud be an inprovement).

Finaly, Each of us woud speak our peace. Our only goal: Convince Granfather to have the giant grout stalagmite disengaged from up his ass.

Slowley we all arrive one by one

Granfather allmost didnt notice when the three criptozoologists came in the trailor along with Junior. Evor since the acident, the 3 doctors have been poking arround Granp's butthole with great interest every few days or so. And Junoir always comes ovor to do odd jobs all around our filthey sprawling compound in return for beer and pocket change and also the indignity of playing cards with Granfather.

"NEMO AND DRIVE BY DONE GOT THE WORMS AGINN," Granfather gruffed noncholontly at Junior without even saying hello while he chewed on a very dryed out cigar.

"THEY'RE BOTH LASHED TO A POST OUT BACK, SO GIT ON OUT."

Nemo and Drive By are names of two of Granfather's dogs. This is both disgousting and cruel, but the dogs ofton get intestinol worms. And insted of taking them to a vet, the old basterd uses a nasty old Texas folk remedy of fasting the hounds off water for two days so the worms migrate to the stomoch and then feeding the dogs a shotglass full of gasoline. I refuse to do this awful deed, but Junior does, for a dollor a dog, plus he has to use his own gas from the can in his truck.

We all silentley crowded arround him

Granfather was wordless and his evil cobra eyes darted arroud the room. He contineud to gnaw on a horroble looking cigar, a cigar that had been soaked by a whole box of them having blowed into the cesspool behind our trailor during a tornado last year, and then that he dryed out on the roof in the hot sun for so long that the leaf wrappor was all extremly loose. It looked like one of those novelty exploading cigars he was smoking, aftor it was exploaded. And as it burned, it smelt (and sureley tasted) like our cesspool and yet he was drawing its fumes into his lungs. This is a clear exampol of the type of man Granfather is: A horrobble, disgousting repulsive man.

When the old bastord saw the County Clerk and Sherriff enter, he sudenly perked up.

"WHUT THE HAYLE'S GOIN ON HERE?" he barked.