Thursday, February 16, 2006


Other grandma, not the widow of recently deceased Grandpa F., R.I.P.Ha. F. Rip. I'm immature.

Within the first five minutes of my visit:

GRANDMA: Can I ask, do you ever run a comb through your hair...?
ME: shakes head in perplexity, looking at her head, which resembles nothing so much as a cockeyed Brillo pad with wings ??!!
GRANDMA: ...or is that against the rules?

No 'sorry about your grandpa', no 'thank you for schlepping all the way down to Outer Buttfuck,' just a commentary on my crap appearance, which has been the last thing on my mind.

Another gem:

GRANDMA: Your hair...is that the style 'out there'...?
ME: Heavy sigh. What 'style'?
GRANDMA: Unkempt?

Good gravy, Grandma.
Pot, kettle. It's all the same vat 'o genetic ooze. Where does she think I got this lovely half-Jewfro, anyway...?


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