Good Ol’ Grandpa

 

What’s the word on the street? My grandfather would always ask. Little did he know that our street gang had transitioned away from words, and had gotten more into break dancing while singing show tunes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this, so I told him that his gang was in good hands. When he asked ‘Who’s Hands?’, I told him that it was my hands, and then he said ‘I thought you said they were in good hands.’

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I assure you, even though these aren’t technically my hands, my hands are of the highest quality.

Besides his proficiency for hurting my feelings, my grandfather and I got along quite well. He was always getting angry at me and beating me with a cane, and I was always getting angry at him and slipping poison into his coffee.

Grandpa was a real tough guy, but I could tell there was some softness underneath. For example he was always crying when I turned down his morphine drip. He’d pretend like he was fine, but then I’d kick him real good and he’d start crying. If you think that was cruel, I should tell you about the time he stole my high school girlfriend.

Okay, I’ll tell you. Grandpa stole my high school girlfriend.

Things weren’t all peaches and roses between us though. Sometimes he’d get real mushy and start saying how “he wished he’d been better to me”, and how “Would you please give me my gun back, I promise I won’t shoot you again, I missed anyway you little sissy”.

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t visit him more often. And then I remember that he’s dead. Dead in love with a lady! I’m just kidding. We don’t know where he is, you take him scuba diving one time and he decides to get lost at sea. Classic grandpa.gi8zym4c-zg-martin-dorsch

 

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