Thursday, July 7, 2011

We Called Him 'Grandpa'

Greetings. As the journey towards the release of ILW’s new video feature has proven arduous and trying (read: you want the video editing software installed so bad, YOU do it!), I thought I’d toss a figurative bone to your (literally) insatiable hunger (STOP eating my blog; you’re flushing my bandwidth budget down the toile–STOP, don’t do THAT either!) for more writing most loud. To that end, I invite you to take a short break from Facebook-creepin' on Abbi Peterson’s ‘I’m Real Bad, But I’m Real Hot: Summer Trix ‘n Treats 2011' photo album, and spend your time wisely by reading (I know, I know: reading’s not your ‘bag.’ Well, you know what else, Austin Powers? The 90s are over, man, and your slang is, like, sooo not cool! Anyway, dullard, take a LONG break!!) these words I’m about to write.

AWESOME PREFACE SEQUEL: My current version of WordPerfect (fuck you, it still exists, I bet) is recent enough to have spell check. However, its spell check does not recognize the words ‘blog’ and ‘Facebook.’ So, it’s kinda like I’m writing this to you from the past. Not, like, time traveling or whathaveyas (awesome note: it DOES recognize the word ‘whathaveyas’! Wait. Does the squiggly line underneath mean ‘spelled correctly’?), but from MY past (which shall henceforth be the only fucking past that matters to you). So, get that knitting...device-thingy...eh, that’s no good. Like a cat on a string, I shall...spin you...a yarn...eh, fuck it. Here’s your story:

‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front po–wait, GOT IT!

Here it comes...

Hang in there...

Wait for it...

BOOYAH! (unrelated)

Almost time...

BOOM: Hope you’re ready to do some sewin’, ‘cause I’m about to spin you a yarn! (BlogLord redemption: Complete.)

‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front porch (which, in actuality, was comprised of two shitty lawn chairs placed at stumbling distance from the front door [which, in actuality, was nothing more than four loosely-connected two-by-fours shoddily hammered into a hole in the facade of my grandparents’ house–-which, in actuality, was little more than an igloo-shaped mound of dirt, clay, and cigarette ashes, held together by spittle and love] and, of course, provided no shade; so, really, we were on grandpa’s “porch,” just outside of the “door” of his “house”...but, of course, I was too young to know that then), me in my bib-‘n-overalls, he sparking the day’s first blunt. Each morning, when the clock (in actuality, a local schizophrenic man with a good screaming voice and lots of energy) struck six (times, upon my forehead), my eyes would dart open, and I would sprint through the home screaming, "You’ll never catch me, you schizo fuck!!” until finally he’d tire himself out, throw up, place a phone (in actuality, one tin can with a string to nowhere) call to the White House, and then head for home. Catching my breath, I would sit at the kitchen table (which, in actuality, was little more than three rigid, erect, deceased Shetland ponies, shoulder to shoulder and duct-taped together) and listen intently to the sound of ferocious footsteps in the gravel pacing away from our home and the schizo’s profanity-laced sobbing fading gently into tinkling sparrows and mosquitoes, soon overtaken by Grandpa's thunderous coughing.

Around this time, my nostrils would invariably begin to with the delightful smell of bacon (in actuality, Grandpa's morning farts) and I'd find my spirit refreshed, ready to meet any endeavor that a new summer's morn was sure to promise. Slipping on my shoes (which were really nothing more than two hollowed-out squirrels, thumb-tacked into my heels and soles; like most kids, I'd get one new pair a year, just before the school year would begin. Going to the mall--in reality, the side of the highway--and waiting for a new pair of shoes was often the highlight of my year. Took us a lot of time, too. Sometimes, a truck would come along and smash a squirrel on the VERY FIRST DAY that we were out there waiting, and we'd hoot, and we'd holler, and Grandpa would slam a shot or two of tequila and down a Quaalude or six and we'd go back home--Grandpa always said, "God never giveth a man more than one shoe at a time, so, let's say a prayer of thanks for the timing that allowed for your shoe to dart across the street at the exact instant that the blessed trucker came barreling down the road and head for the hills. You can try 'er on when we get home."--and I'd be SURE that this season of shoe shopping would be unlike those before, and I'd dance and shout that we'd find a squirrel by the very next day, even! And, of course, Grandpa would nod, huff a nip of ether, and laugh knowingly. So, anyway, I would usually have but one shoe for about half of any given school year.), I would dart out of the house and hop into Grandpa's lap (which, in actuality, was a homemade prosthesis fashioned out of empty 2-liters, Elmer's, and wadded-up Kleenex). By this time, Grandpa's blunt would be reduced to a stub in his ashtray (actually the aforementioned prosthesis) and he'd call out for his beloved steamroller--and I, with pride, and a sense of duty, would reach under his chair and fetch it for him. "Here, pack me a 'roller," he'd inevitably say; I'd mouth the words along and quickly load up a towering bowl.

Like many of the Midwest's grizzled farmers, Grandpa would have put in more work by the time the steamroller began to pour that sweet Mary into his lungs than most men accomplish in a week. His routine never changed (though he wrote it down to remember):

1.) Up before the sun, drop acid.
2.) Get Grandma up and out of her bedroom (in actuality, an elaborate, revamped shed, complete with digital keypad entry, combination lock, retinal screening device, barred windows, and rape stick).
3.) Drive Grandma to work (in actuality, the local Children's Hospital, where Gran was the noted Director of Patient Care).
4.) Grandpa stuff.

By this time in the morning, Grandpa was on to stage four and had built up to a superhuman level of energy. Finishing his steamroller and pounding a shot of Jack, Grandpa would want to do one thing, and one thing only: Teach his grandson America's pastime (the Grand ol' game, a lil' hardball, stickball, tossin' the white, just-a-bit-o'-woodstick), baseball.

As I was diminutive in stature (though in neither cognition nor phallus), you'd imagine that Grandpa would start me off with Nerf, or Whiffle, or whatever, but Grandpa would have none of that "pussy shit," and slamming the rest of his Zima, he'd pick up a real bat (in actuality, a top-of-the-line carbon fiber transfemoral prosthesis that he'd beaten off of a homeless man) and ball (a round, cushioned piece of cork, wrapped tightly in windings of wool and cotton yarn and covered by stitched cowhide--actually, Grandpa's baseballs were pretty well done), and we'd hop the barbwire fence into the backyard (in actuality, Grandpa's neighbor's cattle yard), where he'd throw me pitches.

One fateful morn found Grandpa hackin' and-a wheezin' and-a snortin' and-a stompin'. We were in the backyard, and I was on fire (in actuality, I WAS on fire, Grandpa having just flicked his brunch--which, in actuality, was one of them Bob Marley joints…you know…with the cone shape, or whatevs--into my overalls, but in this case, "on fire" is used in a figurative sense), hammering every pitch that Grandpa fired my way. The longer we went, the further I'd hit 'em and the harder he'd throw 'em. After a low-blow distraction technique (the aforementioned joint toss), I slammed Grandpa's heater into oblivion (figurative, again: the ball did still exist, and, as always, I had to go run and get it). As I stepped back to the plate (in actuality, a dinner plate--which, in reality, was a cardboard box flap), Grandpa, clearly frustrated, took off his hat and wiped his brow. Stepping back onto the mound (in actuality, a mound of ants--Grandpa fucking HATED ants!!!!!), Grandpa's eyes bored into mine with steely focus. As he went into his windup, I remember thinking that I was gonna hit the fucking ball further than I had EVER before. Grandpa's release point, as always, was high and visible--the rotation of the ball out of his hand screamed 'fastball, high and tight'--and then, the lights went out.

I woke up to the sound of the doctor (actually a figment of Grandpa's acid-riddled brain) explaining that I'd been severely concussed, and was likely to experience a rash of symptoms--perhaps forever--that included short-and-long-term memory loss, hallucination, paranoia, and reliance on convoluted sentence structure.

So, anyway, by sophomore year, the bitch was just straight crazy, calling our dorm room like 13 times in a row, leaving pissed off messages on the machine--all of the usual shit. I admit it: I still fucked her from time to time, but c'mon--I'm not fucking made of steel (well, not all of me ;-), right?!), and it's hard to stay firm (well, easy for some of me ;-), right?!) when you're fucking wasted and some chick is just being straight OBVIOUS. Anyway, I always wrapped that shit, though, cause stalker chicks like that are bound to pull the goalie sometime, and there's no WAY I was having a kid with that shit. So, I know, I shouldn't have taken advantage of her feelings and all, but she's straight pulling my cock out, and I'm saying, "no, no, c'mon," and all of that, but, really. At a certain point, that shit's already in her mouth, and, at that point…yeah. So, anyway, to the 2011 Senior Class at Ridgeway High, go forth, and make us all proud. Your parents will probably love you no matter how it all turns out, but rest assured: I'm already disappointed.
_______________________________________________________

Wow! Pretty unbelivable to relive. Anyway, take this story with you. In order to test your reading comprehension, I'll leave the moral up to you to figure out. (Don't worry: I'll still tell you what my blog stories mean in the future. This will just be good practice.)

Anyway, fucking Like my Facebook page already so that I can start doing something with it, and definitely follow @AMChenowith on Twitter, where I actually do write some words every now and again.

You're welcome.

1 comment:

  1. Sounds like somebody's been sucking back some of Grampa's old cough medicine . . . or is it Lil Wayne's? Chenowith, you are (and I mean this as a compliment) The Balls.

    ReplyDelete