The Great Bacteriums

Virus

Part 17 of 30

Right up front I need to put out a disclaimer on this one, that, perhaps, what I seem to recall as “The Great Bacteriums of Old” may not have existed. They're telling me that. Yet I seem to remember the elders talking about them when I was a kid. But this other guy I know, whose great grandparents were a prominent fixture in the 1800s supposedly never told their children and their children’s children about such affairs, because this other guy never heard of it.

I’ve been mulling it over, googling to no avail, and I always thought they had such a reliable service, but so far it’s all coming up empty. And yet it just seems to me that my grandfather, who was born in the late 1800s, had said something about something that his grandfather reportedly mentioned in some context, the exact quotation now lost. As I can put it together -- and there are blanks -- I’ve got the syllable “-teriums and the fact that one of my grandfather’s cousins died of bacteria. Poo poo it if you like but it’s ballpark close, close enough to go with.

So there it was. When people were lucky to live into their 30s and would often defer marriage till they were 35 just to be on the safe side, thanks to inheritance issues and whether ladies or guys were marrying each other for their money, they had these bacterium exhibits. With my understanding being that loving couples used these sideshows to settle inheritance issues for their combined wealth, killing two birds with one stone and hoping neither lover would die in the process. But if they did die too soon, you understand, one family would be left destitute and the other family (his) would make off with the loot. A little complicated.

I based my artist’s depiction of the bacterium based on other sideshow exhibits, leaving out, of course, women with stockings up to their thighs because our tastes these days are less carnal than they went with back then. Personally I have no issue with it, but sometimes there’s issue if I view it long enough. Depends on how hot it is, and some of those east European ladies -- thighs as big as a horse’s -- were immediately hot. Our grandpas had it made, making me wonder why all the grandmas I’ve seen, including my own beloved grandmas, had more modern thighs. My family obviously didn’t range far, or have as high of standards when it came to mating. And I guess it’s still that way. I like most things that move.

Imagine though, getting back to the bacteriums, how tough the folks of old were when it came to viruses. They weren’t fooling around. The showed the virus who was boss, and those who weren’t pushy enough, presumably, died. We could draw a certain parallel with today, too, and probably be pretty accurate. Although one of our modern prejudices is not to easily accept responsibility for our problems. But it’s definitely something to think about, how tough we are, and how supposed tough the virus is.

One Night at the Haunted House

Uncle Cleaver finally died -- Yea! -- and left me the old family place in the country, a scary looking old place -- Crummy Manor. I was there for the reading of the will, seated at the head of the table, around which was a fearsome assortment of angry looking retainers. Uncle's cook, butler, gardener, handyman, and maid. They'd been with him for ages and there I sat, more or less a stranger but the last possible guy in the family who could inherit the place. I felt quite out of place and unwelcome. They shot me daggers.

The lawyer read off each of their names, with each in turn looking downcast upon inheriting nothing. That said, I was a little leery when the will specified that they could still share the manor jointly, if the rightful heir was unable to stay one night. I thought, "What? One night? How hard could it be?" I looked around and imagined their devious thoughts, seeing the grinning, rubbing of hands, and furtive glances at one another.

I felt a tremendous fear well up in me. Then I thought, "Hey, I've seen this movie before!" I called bullshit on the whole thing. I just laid it on the line: "I know you're going to do your damnedest to chase me out, but the truth is I'm not gonna let you. I've got your number, each one of you." I set in listing their schemes. The gardener would have a metal garden claw, the cook poisoned food, the butler knows every secret passageway, the handyman's good with traps, and the maid would get me in bed, the bed would fold up in the wall and I'd be impaled.

If none of that worked, the same cast of characters, no doubt, had costumes hanging inside the walls, a ghost, a werewolf, a skeleton, a leopard, and a French maid dress. In addition to the impaling bed, there'd be poison darts, a noose, a trapdoor, a flaming boulder at the end of a catapult, and a tray of ice cubes for the maid, if things got too hot. I came right out with it, "Each of you scalawags is prepared to do anything you have to to inherit Crummy Manor."

The telling glances continued as I spoke. I looked at the handyman, twiddling his thumbs. And the butler, nervously tugging at his cummerbund. And the maid, hitching up her bra and fanning herself. I knew they were all dangerous in their own way, but I kept my eye on the maid the most, never knowing if I might catch a free shot. She shot me a private glance that I read as a request for a private meeting.

I stood to my feet and slammed my fist on the table, "Gentlemen, I've seen it all before. Let's just cut the crap, OK? If anything happens, if anyone jumps out at me through the night, I know it's gonna be you guys. I don't believe in ghosts, werewolves, walking skeletons, or any of it." Then Greta and I stepped out and I shared with her some of my private fantasies.

She and I passed into a secluded hallway, where we kissed longingly. She saw I was an extremely affectionate soul and broke down in tears, confessing the whole scheme to cheat me out of my inheritance. I swore that if she were true to me, good things would come her way. She looked in my eyes and saw the sincerity. I thought to myself, "I may just give the entire estate to Greta, for her honesty." I turned the thought over in my mind.

She pulled out a detailed list of the evening's schemes, with all the stuff I expected, darts on wires, a skeleton suit, and most intriguing of all, a stunning seduction scene, in which she and I would be sharing a bottle of wine. Then when I set my glass on the table and we commenced a full love scene, a hand would reach out of the drawer and switch it with poison. "How tedious," I said, "I've seen it all before!"

By now, though, I figured the rest of the staff knew I knew, so Greta and I would be safe. But just to be extra sure of not being observed in flagrante delicto, I put masking tape over the eyes of the paintings on the walls. Then it was time to bear down and get this show on the road. I was kissing and stroking Greta, who indeed did come prepared with a French maid outfit, which she was very proficient at wriggling in and out of. Ooo la la, I purred, the only French I know.

I hate to spell everything out -- it's possible someone under 18 might read this, under 16 in Arkansas -- but we were building toward the decisive moment. Our breathing was heavy, our eyes were rolled back, we were panting, there were bold declarations of love, and I for one was all hands. It wouldn't be--- too long--- now------- when, The doors of the wardrobe burst open, and out stepped Uncle Cleaver, very much alive, not a corpse, not a ghost. Himself, in the flesh!

He boasted of staging this entire spectacle, having suspected Greta of being unfaithful to him, etc., etc., and knowing that the arrival of his nephew would only constitute "fresh meat" in her eyes, with which to fulfill her lustful ways. She pulled the sheets up almost to her eyes and was shivering in fear, white as a sheet. Cleaver came at her, very sharp in his tone, and very strong, having lost his grip. He shouted insults at her. She pleaded, "You were dead, Cleve, I thought you were dead!"

"So this is how you console yourself, in the arms of my fool nephew!" The rest of the story doesn't matter much. I got the hell out of there. Greta's now cooking at the diner downtown. I see her once in a while. I don't say much. But it's on always my mind, how close we were to the very top, then Cleaver had to jump out. I'd like to ask her out and pick up where we left off .... or start over ... probably about have to start over.

The Abomination Called Bagpipes

I was downtown tonight, I thought for a pleasant time. But then out of the blue, without any warning, suddenly I heard the sickening sound of bagpipes in the area. Which, had I known that would happen, I never would have left the house. How sickening!

I've never liked the squealing of bagpipes, like most people. It sounds like someone stepping on a cat's tail, if you can imagine a cat's painful squealing in slow motion and very prolonged. Whatever kind of apparatus they've got inside a bagpipe to make such a terrible sound, it is without question something infernal deriving from Hell itself. The instrument puts forth such a putrid sound, it immediately sickens most hearers. I've found that something about it connects in an archetypical way to the gag reflex, and, I don't know, maybe even incontinence or involuntary bowel movements, which might be why the players always wear kilts, for easier evacuation.

I know what everyone's going to say: We try to like bagpipes, we're not up in arms about them, because we want to honor other people's cultures, however foolish they might be. Well, I'm sorry, this is one I've tried to like, but I've found it's impossible. I'd rather have newborn twins crying loudly, one close to one ear and the second close to the other, and spitting up, than be anywhere within a mile of a set of bagpipes. If I could gather up the world's bagpipes -- seriously -- I'd burn them. Although I'll give you this, I would graciously put one of the instruments in a laboratory somewhere, frozen like dangerous viruses, so mankind would always have one sample, however locked away it was, for study by future generations were they to deem it necessary.

OK, I know I'm preaching to the choir, because we all -- most of us, of course excluding sadists and masochists -- hate the bagpipes. And yet -- and this is something I don't fully understand -- people do like the bagpipes on the song "Amazing Grace." Which might be why bagpipe players are always playing it, because they're trying to inspire an actual liking for the instrument, however impossible such an elusive dream has to be.

I would guess the reason people tolerate bagpipes on "Amazing Grace" is because you usually hear it at funerals and other serious commemorations. So it worms its way into people's psyches; they associate it with burying Grandpa and getting their inheritance. So they come to think, however subconsciously, that "Amazing Grace" means easy money. That's actually kind of how it is with me, too. I had a rich uncle. He died. They played "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes at his funeral. I got an $800 inheritance, which I immediately gave to other anti-bagpipes agitators.

Of course the other side of this coin is the odd fact that "Amazing Grace" is one of our least favorite songs, again speaking for nearly everyone. Because they do play it at everyone's funeral. So it's come to represent death, the fear of death, the stench of death, etc. We want to avoid it at all costs. And if it weren't for the dream of inheritances, we'd rise up and ban both it and the bagpipes.

Frankly, I've never been much of a fan of the song, riches or not. It has the words in it, "That saved a wretch like me." That doesn't do much for my self-image, I don't know about you, but I'm not a wretch. I'm pretty darned good. But in a weird way it fits. If you hear a bagpipe guy playing it, he actually is a wretch! A normal musician would be playing a normal instrument, not this abomination.

So what are we left with? A crap instrument and a crap song, but, amazingly (no pun intended), both are more or less tolerated when they're together! Yet I'll insist on this truth: Get rid of the inheritances -- just try it -- everyone give your estate to charity, and the bagpipes would finally get what they deserve!

Your Website After Death

If you have a website or blog, maybe you wonder, like I do, what will happen to it after your death.

I'd like to think that somehow, some way, everything would be nicely preserved for thousands of years. But that's not likely without real dedication on someone's part. How often just within the last 15 years, since the internet really got jumping, have sites come and gone, like Geocities? They give you a month to download your crap, then that's it. After that, you're out of luck.

Imagine your heirs. They think everything's going smoothly with the website they're trying to preserve, two or three years pass, they go back to check it, and Google has some new standard that you have to log-in before a certain date or it'll be gone. They just did that with "legacy blogs," blogs that hadn't been updated for a couple years.

So the idea of your website outliving you by very many years, while it's a great idea, is maybe unrealistic. It's certainly fraught with peril. On the other hand, they say that anything you say on the internet is imperishable, although that might be more true for embarrassing things rather than what you want everyone to remember. Like if you're a teacher and you've molested your entire class, no one's going to forget that. But if you're just an average guy like me, who's never molested anyone and isn't likely to, we have to fend for ourselves. The penalty for being good!

But let's think about that a bit more. Let's say you are a real cretin, like the teacher in the example, and you have a website. (And this goes for mass murderers, or a crazed killer like the guy who tried to kill the congresswoman, or even someone who bullies someone on Facebook into suicide.) As soon as their crime becomes known and they're infamous, you can set your watch by it, whatever they've posted on the internet will be gone within five minutes. Maybe it's because of the overload on the server, or because no one wants to be associated with them -- whatever, it's gone! Of course their incredible failure at life will always be known, just not the other...

And that's what it is for all these deranged people, they're an incredible failure at life. There's different ways at looking at life, existence, and what it is we are here to accomplish, if anything. More or less, I think we're here simply to reproduce, like every other species. Although we've tamed nature to a certain extent and don't need to reproduce like wild animals. But socially we have a purpose, and that's to get along as best we can, be a decent citizen, and someday pass on. People will say, "He lived a good life." But if you're deranged, or do something psychotic, like killing a bunch of people, we say, "What a failure at life! His one chance at life and he blew it!"

But they ought to leave their websites up. The publicity is going to die down. The rest of us then can preserve our own websites and blogs, and if we ever need to be reminded, we can go visit those folks' and tell ourselves, "I may not be much. But at least I'm not that asshole."

The Last Will And Testament Of Edgar D. Scuzworth

We're almost to Halloween once again, which always reminds me of the same thing, the kids of this one town getting their costumes and candy. Because they had a real champion in Edgar D. Scuzworth, of blessed memory.

But of course it would've never happened had his family treated him right. I feel like calling them a bunch of dirty names, and maybe you can guess what they'd be, but since there's a good chance the kids will be reading this, I'll just call them idiots, morons, and goofballs.

In my opinion, it'd completely idiotic if you're in for a big inheritance but then you're not patient with the person who is your benefactor, even to the point of wishing him dead, or worse, trying to hasten his death. Some of the idiots, morons, and goofballs thought they could speed it along, then get their grubby hands on his fortune, a considerable fortune ... of exactly $80,000,000.06. That's right, $80 million and change!

Of course it's always best to love our loved ones, money or not, but that very elementary, common sense concept had eluded Mr. Scuzworth's family. There was his crummy daughter, his terrible son, and his hateful wife. But it's not like he didn't see it coming. A guy with his brainpower -- he was very smart -- knows what's going on. He was smart enough himself when his father died to get the fortune, old money, from the famous Scuzworth Tire Company of the 1930s.

Mr. Scuzworth took care of the money over the years, he didn't waste it. He took out enough to live on and that was it. I think that's smart, except it created resentment in his family. His crummy daughter always thought she needed more, his terrible son was never content with his pittance of an allowance, and his hateful wife hated him for his frugality. She wanted to dress like the other society ladies. La-dee-dah! And that's the way it went all the way up to the time Mr. Scuzworth got sick and was about to die.

Well, to make a long story somewhat shorter, a necessity in this day of short attention spans, when people would rather have their stories short and pithy, even to the point of leaving out vital information, such as the various murderous intrigues and plots the family concocted to kill the old man off, interesting to me if not you, at some point he wrote out his "Last Will and Testament."

So there they were, Crummy, Terrible, and Hateful, gathered for the reading of the will. (His death was painful and tumultuous so I shudder to describe it.) The old family retainer, so old he had dust on his toupee, read it in his slow, halting voice.

To my loving daughter, who has wished me dead for years, I leave the grand total of two cents.

To my loving son, who has always been spiteful and had it in for me, I leave the grand total of two cents.

And to my loving wife, who stayed with me through thick and thin, always thinking I might die more quickly and leave her the family fortune, I leave the grand total of two cents.

So, you see, that takes care of the six cents. But the real shocker was what he bequeathed to the children of the town:

To the children of the town, I will that $80 million be kept in trust, so that to perpetuity they can have a great Halloween. The money will be paid out annually to Halloween stores to keep the children in good costumes and well-equipped in other ways to have a great holiday.

Pretty cool, huh? Apparently he had one joy in life, since his own kids were so bad, and that was the kids who came around at Halloween for Trick or Treat. They were scared to death of him, being a scary looking old guy, and he liked that. And so it is, to this day, the little town has about 40 Halloween stores that set up for two or three months a year. With around 200 kids in town, the stores, to get the money, really load them up with costumes.

They also have Scuzworth Days, including a big parade of the kids in their costumes, financed by the Halloween stores, who then write it off their taxes.

What happened to his hateful son, his crummy wife, and his terrible daughter? Suicide, boom, boom, boom!