Too much crap to do every day, and that’s all I have to say about it. Too damn much. If people knew the errands that woman sends me on, they’d say “Damn, that is too much crap to do everyday.” She’s runnin me thin. I’m taxed. I ain’t a young man like I used to be, and my days are numbered. No kiddin. No more carefree days for grandpa, no. It’s just run errands and die for me, and that’s about the sum of it. You’ll get no apologies outta grandma. “Let him pass away,” she’d probably say, “he’s crap.”

She’s a heartless you-know-what and a half. Well I’m going to pass away just to see what happens. Man, will she be sorry. Who’s going to buy the lysol now, woman? You? What if you brake a nail? Or your neck?

I laid myself down to die here on the davenport. I ain’t getting up till I hear harps playin. I’ve got a Diet Pepsi and some saltine crackers in case it takes a while, as these things often do. Now it’s only a matter of time, so I might as well take it easy, you know. I figure I only have a good three more errands in me before my whole goddamn body gives out anyway, so I want to spend my time lying down.