I can't honestly remember the last time I had some of Grandma's charcoal-grilled ice cream pie. Probably decades ago now, and no one knows how to make it because she ate the recipe just before she croaked. (Clarification — Croaked for the last time. She never could sing that well.) Yes, we did pump her stomach but all we got was nasty bilge and steaming mush. No recipe. It looks hopeless by now, and there are way too many maggots swarming the corpse as well. Kind of leans toward killing your appetite, mostly.
I don't pucker very well any more, unless I'm left out in the sun for a few days, and I still don't like cranberries, no matter what my grandmother thought about their intellectual capabilities.
Spider pie — recipes I found on a slip of paper stuck in Grandma's 1903 dictionary. All three of them were from the olden days before TV dinners. Remember TV dinners? Am I that old? (Keep in mind that I also bite.)
There has been a real decline in the number a hot babes you see over at the Wally Mart these days, and I blame it on all them dam liberals makin off with them for knee farius purposes and all that. It's gettin so I'm comin up excited with the grammas drivin around in the scooters with there size 18 love handles hangin out. Life aint gettin to be that much fun no more.
Grampa Fartenbumper escaped again and went out dancing, again. We had to tie him up with a chain and drag him home with the farm tractor. And then we painted him orange so's he'll be easier to spot next time. There's sure to be a next time. There always is. He can't stand just sitting at home with Gramma Fartenbumper, in the parlor, staring at the wall and making those noises with his nose.
Nobody talks much about Lady Gaga any more. I wonder what she turned into after that eight-month hibernation of hers. In the cave. Might have nippers on one end now or something, or horns, or maybe not, or maybe turned into someone's grandmother. Could be. There's always a chance. Moo.
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Me? Definitely never wanted to be a granny, or a walrus.
