Part of The Furniture
Okay — Hurry up, Timmy! Grab that cigarette stub before any hot ash falls on the new rug! (You remember what it looked like the last time we had firefighters in yellow slickers trudging through the family room, spraying the soot-scorched walls.)
And Ashley, you go get the undertaker on the phone (or the upholsterer, or the taxidermist, or whatever . . . ). It looks like Grampa Derf is finally — and truly — part of the furniture!
No, Tim dear, don’t worry about what might be left of that can of Iron City. It looks like it’s become part of that lounge chair, too. I don’t think we have to worry about spills anymore.
How many times did I say to Gramp, “You sit there unmoving for so many hours, if you’re not careful, one of these days you’re gonna become part of that dang favorite lounge chair of yours!” Well, I can’t say as how I appreciate being right this time. How in the heck are we going to get him out of here? It took two grown men, a lot of twisting and grunting, and marks all over the kitchen walls just the get that blasted oversized chair in here in the first place. I’m sure the compounded bulk of our dearly departed isn’t going to make it any easier going back out through the yard.
Tsk, tsk. My not-too-bright former husband’s dad never could take a hint.
“On your feet, lard-butt,” I’d scold him. “At least stand up and pace the 14 feet or so to the fridge to get your own beer now and then! You’ll petrify in place.” But, no, Mr. Frozen-Buttocks could never be bothered. It was always Tim or Ash or me who had to fetch another frosty aluminum for him. And, man, how I got tired of the constant ashtray emptying, lighter fetching, and generic ciggy purchasing day in and day out.
It was just the other day I asked him, “What in the world could be so mesmerizing by one more sassy girl fight, wackos stocking up for doomsday, back episodes of a totally cheesy and no longer broadcast sci-fi serial, high school cheerleading highlights, frosting wars, shouting heads touting stocks, ghost whispering, droning morning talk shows, a guy in khakis manhandling a gecko, surprise storage bin contents, gay chefs, another grisly shark chronicle, live weather video from somewhere else, two dudes blowing up crappy inventions, totally unconvincing homemade horror costumes, game shows peppered with shrieking, a missing child telethon, aging bleached blondes misreading the news crawl, profane hip-hop, some British gal shilling gold coins, a really awesome finish to some intercollegiate basketball semifinal from three decades past, kung-fu westerns, and a compilation of annoyingly obscene pranks?
He never even bothered to answer me. He simply employed the remote to switch from a documentary on properly raising ornamental carp in a back yard pond to reruns of last month’s bouts of ultimate fighting, without ever seemingly raising even a finger. Now I know why.
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