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Dear Katy,
Well I bet you think you're a big hot poop,
trying to humiliate your poor old grampa in print the way you did. I guess
you think you're queen of the hill. All I can say is I'm too big of a man to
spar with you insult to insult. Because you couldn't take it girl, you'd be
weaving and bobbing with those little cartoon stars coming out of your head,
just like what used to happen when my old friend Burt Ward would sock one of
those costumed bad guys in the jaw, back in the good old days, when
youngsters weren't quite so keen to sass their elders.
Did it ever occur to you that your poor old
grampa was just trying to help you out, lass? There you are all locked away
in that rehab clinic, and King Features is calling me, saying "Help us,
Grampa, help us. Katy's zonked on Thorazine and we don't have enough columns
in the can. Give us some of your sage advice". It's because I love you,
young fool, that's why I picked up the slack until you could get your shit
back together. And what do I get as my reward? Snarky comments about my
'demon seed' and hurtful jokes about my bowel movements. I guess
you're just like your mother, that little whore.
I don't mean to sound harsh, Katy, it's
just that we show people get a little emotional from time to time. For
goodness sake, could I have ever played the part of Mortimer in The
Fantasticks for thirty-six long years if I didn't know how to cry? Ah, I
remember the first time you ever came to see me on the big stage, my little
muffin flower. You were just a cute little thing in a velvet dress and
golden shoes, and I acted my heart out for you. Remember? Afterwards, when I
took you and your mother out for Chinese at the Jade Slipper, and Dick
Sargent came over to our table to say hello, I could see the pride in your
eyes. And that's the way I still picture you, Katy, even though you've grown
bitter and old.
Hugs and kisses,
Grampa
Grampa,
I’m going to kill you and have your deeply creased husk spindled on a flag
pole, gerbil hole first, if you ever mention my Mother again. Those scaly
digits of yours are not fit to type her name, you lecherous old crotch
rot. Same goes for the word ‘Thorazine’…
And that heartwarming memory of yours? The one where you take me and
Mother out for Chinese? With me in a velvet dress? Dick Sargent stopping
by? That was from an episode of Bewitched, not your own life, you addled
remnant. The one where Samantha turned the waiter into a fortune cookie. I
never owned a velvet dress, only Mother owned soft things. My clothes were
all made out of sand paper and wool socks stapled together, because Mother
believed in Shaping Character thru Chaffing and Itching. She was right.
She always is. “When Grampa clears his throat,” she warned me, “Close your
eyes, cross your legs, and pray to Jesus that he be eaten by crows.”
The only thing you’ve every taken out in public is your withered spotty
member and that wasn’t pride in my eyes, you horrible horrible man.
Let me pull the plug, you old geezewad, before someone figures out the
correlation between your spastic colon and all those missing Christmas
hamsters.
Give Gramma a hug,
Katy
'Ask Katy' © 2005,
Katy Hipke and Mark Hoback |
