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Dear Katy
Sure, I bet you get tired of hearing people's problems.
Whine, whine, whine. Bet you think you’ve heard it all, don’t you? But I bet
you never heard about a man with two noses, have you? Not on his face mind
you, but in the center of his chest there was a perfectly formed proboscis.
It belonged to an old vaudeville hoofer by the name of Francis Lattimore.
Frankie Two-Nose, we used to call him, and he was quick as a whip with a
quip. Remember Jimmy Durante and how he’d say “that ain’t no banana, that’s
my nose”. Got that one from Frankie.
But I didn’t write to talk about my old friends, no, I wrote
to tell you about my granddaughter the ingrate. You remind me a lot of her,
Katy. Little things, like your face, your name, and your black little heart.
You dare to
tell me to give a hug to gramma when you know full well that she
succumbed to sorrow long ago when she realized what depths her beloved
‘Katy’ was willing to sink to in an effort to besmirch the Jenkins family
name. Arrrgh, you’re not a ‘Katy’, you’re a Catherine, just like Catherine
the Not-So-Great, what with her filthy stallion Blaze, and her putrid cake
eating mouth that had the crumbs all over it.
So, what you think, girl? Pretty good acting, eh? Yes, old
Grampa still has the chops to play a lot of different parts! There are those
that think that I played Mortimer in ‘The Fantasticks’ for such a long time
that I don’t know anything else, but they’ve forgotten about my role as the
scallywag in that two hour episode of ‘Barretta’, or my recurring role of
the curmudgeonly old man in ‘She’s the Sheriff’.
I wanted to make you an offer, Katy. You see, I just got an
invite to write a show biz advice column for the lovely and talented Gina
Overly at her new Michael Jackson trial site, but I said to myself maybe I
should lend my beloved Katy a hand with her column instead. We could rename
it “Ask Grampa and Katy”, and as far as I’m concerned, your name could be in
the same type size as mine. It’d be gangbusters!
Don’t keep me waiting. An offer as good as this one won’t
last for long.
Hugs and kisses,
Grampa
p.s. – Maybe we could meet for a bite over at Hannigan’s
Deli. You know they recently named a sandwich, 'The Grampa', after me –
corned beef, turkey, and avocado – and I’d love to treat you to one.
Dear Grampa,
That Gramma “succumbed to sorrow long ago” is an awful fancy
way of dressing up “was run over, twice, with my brand new riding lawn
mower last fall” now isn’t it? First her legs and then her upper body and
face. Neatly in half. And then lengthwise. “I didn’t see her,” you
exclaimed later. “I thought she was crabgrass! Or a nematode!” She was
wearing her bright red/white and blue housecoat that I got her for Labor
Day, poor ole soul. She had just gotten the mail and was shuffling back
toward the house. The neighbors heard her screaming “NO GRAMPA! NO!”
after the first pass, but you just finished the row, turned and headed
back for more.
“FOR GOD’S SAKE! NO, THADDEOUS, NO!! I THINK I LEFT THE IRON
ON! WHERE’S MY PURSE?!” were her last words. RIP.
You claimed you didn’t see the 200 pound flailing upper body
of the only person in this world who still believed, after all those
years, that it was the dog who’d just farted. You ran her down like a cold
blooded predator, with the mulching attachment and a trail of Weed and
Feed. You two didn’t even have a dog. You are the lowest of the low, you
putrid lesion. The judge looked at those enlarged photos of a nematode and
said he believed you. You and your $50 Off All Canadian Prescriptions!
Coupon, which I saw you hand the bailiff. You old people make me sick.
Hannigan’s Deli has been closed for 30 years. The building
was torn down and now homeless people go there to sleep and shit. But
whatever you can find there, feel free to name after yourself. And by all
means, enjoy the sandwich!
Katy
All right,
Katy,
Your message is coming through loud and
clear. Hannigan's is out.
(Has
it really been thirty years since I've eaten there?) Oy Vey, that was
one good sandwich! Time flies, doesn't she?
Just
so you know, Gramma's mangled corpse no longer haunts me the way it did for
those first couple of weeks. I'll bet that there is a beer hall in heaven
where Gramma where can kick up her legs and drink cold steins of
Weihenstephan, all the while kiffin with the alte ziegs. Not like you really
care. Ha Ha. Just joking, my darling girl. We all loved Gretchen, or as you
called her, Gramma...
So,
forget Hannigan's, what's say that I take you someplace really special -
Mortimer's Steak House, the home of the best New York Strip in the land! I
may have mentioned in the past that they know me very well there from my
long running role as Mortimer in Broadway's 'Fantasticks', and we will be
seated as royalty. We can drink a little Tanqueray and talk about the 'Ask
Grampa' column.
Or we can always do Mexican.
Hugs
and Kisses,
Grampa
Okay.
Fine. I’ll meet you, but only because you still have that jar
of Gramma’s teeth that she promised I could have before she died. They’d
better all be there, too, you old puss pocket, or I’ll take what’s left of
yours.
How about we meet at the ‘Tito’s Taco
Tractor’? You know that taco/grounds maintenance truck that parks out behind
the federal building every day. High noon. Be there right on the nose, as
Tito is turning the sign around to reveal a dancing taco in a sombrero, as
well as his tractor/Madonna tattoos, taking off his dirty green jumpers and
pulling a clean white t-shirt over that smooth young brown flesh…warming the
grease and my heart to sizzling.…Be prompt, you old ass ratchet; he only has
one hour to make the best tacos this world has ever known. When the clock
strikes 1:00, the sign gets flipped, ugly jumpers donned, and it’s back to
weed-pulling for the hottest taco assembler this side of legal.
Remember to wear pants
and I’m sure you’ll be treated as much like royalty as you would anywhere
else outside your own diseased skull,
Hearts and butterflies,
Katy
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