Everything About This Post is Pissing Me Off. Probably Why I Have NOT Continued it of Late: “A Tale of Two Grandmothers (WIP RIP)” I need to start fresh over with this one. From scratch.

Ed note: Someone made her gravestone before she was even dead.

Who does that?

Who the fuck does that?

As a fucking job??

How fucked up is that?

I will never have a gravestone.

When I die, I will just be worm’s meat.

And this is how I want it.

This is how it will be.

How it should be.

I don’t want no idiot standing over my grave pontificating, telling lies about ‘What a great man he was.’ Blah! Blah! Blah!

Bullshit! He was an asshole, just like all the other assholes of the world.

Simple. He lived. He lied. He died.

Wipe your ass and your eyes and walk the fuck away.

Do not mistake me. I have long lost dead friends. I think of them often. I remember them. I cherish my memories of them. My most cherished memories are of Peanut and a few others. Do I visit their graves? Do I bring teddy bears, beers or flowers? Fuck no!

I hold them in my memory.

Fuck that grave-side shit!

That, to me is just theatre.

Self Pity.

Fuck that.

Fuck all that.

“Don’t sugar-coat it Lance; tell us how you really feel.”

“Go fuck yourself and leave me alone! How’s that?”

“I think we got the message.”

***

I had two grandmothers.

Most of us do/did

One was pure Saint.

One was pure Satan

I loved them both

Let us begin with the ‘Saintly One’

She was my Daddy’s mother.

Her name was ‘Pauline’ (Born in Levelland, Texas—NATIVE TEXAN—this is important—to me–Obviously)

She was beautiful.

And pondering back on her over the years, best contemporary help I can provide:

She was exactly like Emmylou Harris,

But prettier

And believe it or don’t,

Classier. 

If that is even possible.

Yep.

‘Tis.

She had so much class.

Fun trivial fact:

Pauline (Grandmother… duh… who I am writing of…)

Once confided to me during a road trip:

“I had a streak of gray hair running in my hair, ever’ since I was fourteen. (Emmylou did too, btw) Did not prevent your grandfather from marrying me… go figure.”

***

My Paternal Granddaddy

He scared me

Into insanity

 

        

***

The other one…

The ‘Maternal One’

Name of ‘Mamie’

(From Tennessee—go figger)

Well,

She weren’t no Emmylou.

Let me tell you.

Mamie was uglier than a homemade mud fence.

She was ‘Satan-on-Steroids’

I loved her.

***

This is just a preamble

I’m too drunk and lazy to do this justice right now.

Stay tuned.

I swar’ on both of their graves, I will write no other shit until I return to this one.

It is important to me.

Probably not to you.

But, then agin, it ain’t never ‘bout you, is it?

It is ‘always’ ‘bout me.

And my self-empathy.

Ain’t it?

Thanks for watching/reading.

(And for tolerating a drunken fool–me)

***

And now a word from our sponsors:

A Tale of Two Grandmothers (WIP RIP)

Ed note: Someone made her gravestone before she was even dead.

How fucked up is that?

***

I had two grandmothers.

Most of us do/did

One was pure Saint.

One was pure Satan

I loved them both

Let us begin with the ‘Saintly One’

She was my Daddy’s mother.

Her name was ‘Pauline’ (Born in Levelland, Texas—NATIVE TEXAN—this is important—to me–Obviously)

She was beautiful.

And pondering back on her over the years, best contemporary help I can provide:

She was exactly like Emmylou Harris,

But prettier

And believe it or don’t,

Classier. 

If that is even possible.

Yep.

‘Tis.

She had so much class.

Fun trivial fact:

Pauline (Grandmother… duh… who I am writing of…)

Once confided to me during a road trip:

“I had a streak of gray hair running in my hair, ever’ since I was fourteen. (Emmylou did too, btw) Did not prevent your grandfather from marrying me… go figure.”

***

My Paternal Granddaddy

He scared me

Into insanity

 

        

***

The other one…

The ‘Maternal One’

Name of ‘Mamie’

(From Tennessee—go figger)

Well,

She weren’t no Emmylou.

Let me tell you.

Mamie was uglier than a homemade mud fence.

She was ‘Satan-on-Steroids’

I loved her.

***

This is just a preamble

I’m too drunk and lazy to do this justice right now.

Stay tuned.

I swar’ on both of their graves, I will write no other shit until I return to this one.

It is important to me.

Probably not to you.

But, then agin, it ain’t never ‘bout you, is it?

It is ‘always’ ‘bout me.

And my self-empathy.

Ain’t it?

Thanks for watching/reading.

(And for tolerating a drunken fool–me)

***

And now a word from our sponsors:

Lance, You Lie: End

Previous Chapters Here:

One Two Three Four Five Six

*******************

I went through the plan with Kim in great detail for what was to happen once he and John landed. He was not to look for me, shout, or do anything that might look unusual. It was going to look unusual enough just having a private plane touching down behind the sheriff’s headquarters. I made Kim repeat all the steps back to me about a million times. John assured me he could land the plane and stop quickly. He and Kim would throw the duffel bags out and Kim and I could have them in the car in less than thirty seconds. John would begin his take off as soon as the last bag left the plane.

Total time on the ground: less than one minute. “Beautiful. I hoped it actually turns out that way,” I remember saying to them both. If you’re wondering what happened to Kirk, well he’d had enough of the Lance and Kim Show, and decided to hang it up. No problem; we really didn’t need him anyway. Ditto for Joe after his release from hospital and we returned his car to him.

The day before the flight, I made Kim take the Impala to the shop and purchase new tires. He balked at this, but I explained to him that I did not want to be driving around Lake Charles with over a hundred pounds of pot and have a blowout. He took the car and bought the tires. I had satisfied myself that all was in order and had made several final recons of the landing site just to make sure someone had not decided to begin a construction project in the middle of my runway. No one had. We were set.

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