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STUCK IN THE BASEMENT OF LIFE:
THE ULTIMATE GUIDE ON HOW YOUR GRAND-KIDS CAN MAKE YOU GO BROKE! (or kill you!) by Billie Geist

3 There is the myth that being a Grandparent is one of those great events that helps you get through your golden years. THIS IS TOTAL BULLSHIT! Grand-kids are like taking drugs. A little may make you feel better for awhile, put large doses around the clock can kill you. I never imagined that my Golden years would feel like I was being tortured by sticky, smelly and loud midgets. What I had planned was that my time would be spent golfing, getting the band back together, lounging around the patio, or planting a garden with tomatoes and pot plants for extra income. Instead, I found myself covered in kid viscus of snot and poopy diaper flotsam. As this wasn't enough pain, I will never forget the night those little bastards moved in. My normal routine was to turn off the lights in the house, so that I didn't make CON-ED any richer. (Ironically a perfect name for a company, like Bernie MADEOFF fits his real occupation.) I am now in my old man mode. That is, I have my Father's ghost making me say the lines, I thought, I would never say: “Jesus, DO YOU THINK IT IS THOMAS EDISON FRIGGIN BIRTHDAY, AND THE ELECTRIC COMPANY NEEDS MORE MONEY TO CELEBRATE.” I did shout this in honor of the old man, plus, to my wonderful son Willie. Willie is now with his family sleeping in the guest room. My son of course didn't plan to come back home. He thought himself a STAR at MSNBC, and the world was now his oyster. But like the oysters covered in BP oil, they are now stinking and not worth as much.

4 You see the kid, screwed up. Willie suffered from grand delusions that he was as rich as Mitt Romney. Willie's brain did not function with logic or thing called making a plan. If it wasn't for his wife laying out his clothes for the morning; Willie would always be doing his TV show in his Pj's. Therefore, when Willie was left alone to his own devices, it was a moment of sheer terror and stupidity. Willie, in his infinite wisdom decided to sell his condo and buy a house that was big enough for a small Mexican village or at least the size of Donald Trump's ego and ex-wives. When I pointed out that it was not a normal starter home. “Willie, you work for MSNBC, not own MSNBC, why not think smaller?” “Pops, you have to dream big and go for it!” Well, when he showed me a picture of the Mic-Manison he was set to buy; I spit out my Starbuck coffee into my lap, and shot Willie the look of incredulous disbelief. “Don't worry Pops, everything is set in place, I have it covered.” “OH! Crap” I said. It did hurt Willie's touchie, feelie side, but the kid's gotta learn. You see. Willie has inherited my great hair, but he also inherited my wife's family defective brain. Willie, like the government, thinks you don't need good credit or real money. Thus, Willie tries to spend money he doesn't have. This trick doesn't work anymore, as they stopped giving out those type loans after the banks blew up. So I put down my tomato plants and special plants that morning and decided to help my son get his first house. Willie and I attended the meeting with the Mortgage team at Bank of America (Soon to be the Bank of Buffet and Chairman Mao's house of loans and lo mein).

5 While driving to the Bank, I tried to explain the issues and nuances of getting a mortgage to my son, but I might as well be talking to a chimp about quantum physics. “Willie, son, buying a house is not buying a pair of blue-jeans, and it is even worse than buying a new car” “Pops, I have friends from Bank of America, cus Barnicle's wife is a big-shot there.” Willie always thought that things would always go his way. The kid was damn lucky, but I had been feeling that this time he gets bitched slap by reality. “Kid, the paperwork alone, will give you a migraine. Plus, everything has to be verified and tripled checked now. I looked at my son, and he still seemed a blank slate. Willie's brain is mainly something that processes gambling or sports. However, as a Father I felt, I could offer some sage advice. “Pop's we should be done in a couple of minutes, and then we can play golf?” After Willie said this I wanted to smack him on the backside of the head and tell him “WAKE UP YOU CLUELESS, BASTARD.” Once we made into the plush offices of Bank of America, I knew the kid was going to be served his first taste of shit on a shingle. The receptionist was cute and perky, but I could see that the mortgage team was basically working the foreclosure racket. Their were a bunch of guys in a conference signing large documents in a

6 frenzy, so I assumed that they were trying to unload properties before the investigators showed up. The receptionist dialed the extension of one Frank Morseless. Frank's voice indicated that he was a busy man, who was going to tell my kid, the truth quickly. Frank walked slowly up with that air of a Mafia don and conceited executive who always got his bonus, whether he deserved it or not. “Hello, Mr. Geist.” Frank voice boomed in that powerful manner. “I am glad to see that we have Father and son here today.” When he said that I knew, that he was going to give the kid the bad news or worse try to get me to co-sign a loan or give the kid some cash. “Please, come to my office.” We both followed. Willie was still upbeat and happy. Could the kid's luck hold? The office was what you expected. Leather chairs, kid's trophy, pictures of wife, dog, kids on vacation. Etc.... “Well, Mr. Geist, may I call you, Willie.” The big guy was friendly, but he kept staring at his computer screen on the side of his desk. My clueless kid, happily responded. “Sure thing.” “Willie, we have found some major problems with mortgage applications, and I hate to say that we cannot approve your mortgage.” “Um.. Ah...What sort of problems?” My son said in true disbelief that anything could go wrong in his life. You see. Wille married his grammar school sweetheart, been a star quarterback in high-school, and I paid his way into Vanderbilt University. (I actually, sort of Bribed his bad grades away, like many previous Presidents fathers)

7 (My mind said, that Vanderbilt should have covered the basics of life, like trying to get a mortgage, paying bills on time, etc....etc....) (Damn, what a waste of my money, I should have sent Willie to learn a trade like plumbing.) “Well, Willie your credit school was low. It was 380 when it should have been at least 800, plus your stated income did not jive with the Comcast records.” I watched my kid's mouth drop open, like he got voted off the high-school float for the geeky kid, with the braces and bowl haircut. The kid was in adult world shock. “Well, Willie, maybe if you could clear up some of these credit issues, or maybe if you father could generously make a gift or loan you some money, we could try again.” The Banker than chuckled. After the Banker stopped laughing, he then nicely said , “he should consider something smaller. I shouldn't have,but I commented: “You mean like a house on wheels.” We both got up, did the goodbye shake, and I walked with my stunned son back to his car. This caused me to give him a new nickname whenever he pasted my way. “HOW'S IT GOING, CHUCKLEHEAD?” “Or I would call him “Trailer-man.” I know this is cruel. However,this is my way I am telling him; I love him, but letting him know that he is lacking in grey matter. Maybe my insults will change his wastrel ways.

8 Giving a son a nickname is a long-held Geist tradition, as if my old man was still alive he would still be calling me Meatloaf. Of course, in the back of mind, a shudder of fear came over me. The kid is truly clueless. What, Willie didn't tell me is that he already sold his condo and had to move out in one month. Now my son, was going to be officially homeless. Willie's new palace was occupied by a buyer who ran a hedge fund and had real money. OPS! Since, the kid didn't tell me he was going to be homeless in a month, I didn't see what was coming. Yes,,,I too was clueless. I became a victim of circumstance in one month time, by not fully questioning my numbskull son. ONE MONTH LATER...the GEIST MOTEL IS FORCED OPEN. NOW,,my nightmare began. Willie's family was standing at my doorstep looking like a punch of wet dogs looking for a home. One side of my brain said change the locks and pretend I didn't know the chuckle head or his family. However, I knew that my wife can be a real ball buster. So there you have it. Grandpa Geist was now prodded into accepting using guilt and fear of being neutered by my wife, while I was sleeping. That is how my wife forced me to take Willie and his brood into MY HOUSE! I had noticed, that the first night after they moved in it was going to be a horror movie. You see. Doors were left open to heat and cool the outside. Lights were turned on, in rooms no one was in. Then, I realized that Willie had never gotten out of his teenager phase. For god's sake, I am still working at CBS, and now I am getting this free loader back again. I am tired old man. I don't deserve this shit.

9 I should be on a beach somewhere having one of those drinks with the umbrella in it. So seeing that my electric meter was running like a teenager in stolen Porsche, I went to go and turn off the basement lights, when all of sudden my foot hit a shiny toy laptop that was in the hallway. I tried to stop myself with my cat like reflex, but realized that I was an old cat that the Vet would most likely put to sleep. My body convulsed. My muscles tensed up. I was ready for battle or certain death. Even my life flashed before me, with some guy who looked liked Jesus or John Lennon in his long hair peacenik mode. I saw a flash of white light, and the voice said, “BEWARE OF CHILDREN, “BEWARE OF FREE LOADERS” “BEWARE OF SOFT SHOE SHUFFLERS” “BEWARE OF GREEDY LEADERS.” BEWARE OF DARKNESS!” Was the voice, Jesus, George Harrison, or wait dear long dead Dad? It's got to be the old man. Dad was giving me advice on how to survive this. Now this was happening quickly, but I was almost killed a couple of times in my life, so I didn't panic. The imagines, and voices were exploding quickly in my brain. My dad's imagine is popping in saying, “REMEMBER HOW I SURVIVED ... WHEN YOUR MOTHER WENT POSTAL...” It was the old man telling to remember that faithful Christmas he survived the attack of the pissed off wife:

10 Now, I remember, the one Christmas when he came home stinking drunk, and my dear sweet Mother went hulk hogan on his ass. My Mother who suffered through another tree-less Christmas, crappy present Holiday, resulted in her becoming a mean lean fighting machine. I was standing in the kitchen watching the action, as cable had not been invented. Mom was standing and tapping her foot in the alcove when her temper got the best of her. Boy does she have a temper. The old man staggered into the alcove like drunks do. “I AM HOME! SWEETIE!” The old man thought he could talk his way out of this. Mom's face now turned red,then her pupils dilated like a cat ready to kill. In a rage, Mom shoved the old man with her flabby but muscular arms, then coupling it with a viscous hockey style hip check, to the old man's drunken posterior. Now, the old man was launched airborne down the basement stairs where he did a perfect relaxed barrel roll into the basement. Without even missing a beat the old man looked up from the basement floor at my Mother and calmly stated: “I didn't know you knew Karate.” The old man didn't get a scratch or break a bone, but he had just relaxed into the fall. THAT'S IT RELAX WHILE FALLING.

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So, I relaxed in a Zen like manner. I fell backward and then tumbled down the basement steps hitting my hip against every stair. My fall was stopped, when I rolled into the exercise bike, my wife used as clothes rack. I had relaxed and amazing I didn't feel anything broken. However, I was pissed. Next, I wanted to see if anyone one would come to my aid. I decided to scream out and then take note of who showed up, and how long it would take to get assistance. “SON OF BITCH!” “JESUS CHRIST, SOMEBODY HELP ME!” “HELP, I HAVE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP!” “HELP, I AM IN THE BASEMENT!!!” I looked to see no family members even stirring. I think there was a mouse stirring since I was in the basements to my chagrin, the cats had signed a another rodent peace treaty. It was totally pitch black since the lights remind off. I waited for help. Time slows down when you're in trouble, and you are expecting help, when you are having fun time is extremely quick. I just waited, thinking how the hell could all the idiots not hear someone falling down a flight of stairs. Did I need to fall down with a Marching band to get a raise out of the them?

12 My next step would be to turn on the lights go to my stereo hooked up to my stack of Marshall Amps, and along with my drum set to begin my playing of either Cream's “Born under a bad sign.” Or for the Jazz lover Buddy Rich's West side story with drum solo. Yes, I am the cool one the family, as my son is just a jock, with no musical or artistic skills. However, he gets more air time. Jesus, the least talented seem to be assured a gig on TV. I ask you, do you see any real talent with the Kardashian's or the Jersey shore numbskulls? Huh... Huh... I was trying to find humor in being trapped in the basement, but all could think of was John Wayne Gacy jokes, and I actual scared myself. Maybe, this their plan to get rid of me? Maybe my wife has one of those boy-toy lovers, or my kid's real hobby is patricide? My body was still in shock, so I decided to wait it out for awhile longer to see what family member really loved me. Then it hit me. I could die down her because they are all selfabsorbed idiots. No wife, Son, daughter-in-law were heard running through the house to my aid. “SON OF BITCH!” Wait! I hear movement. Feet are scampering through the house. Now, I am thinking finally I am going to have my loving family come to my aid. It's totally black in the basement since, I did turn off the lights, so I strain my old eyes to see my devoted family at the basement stairs. Holy crap it's not my human family. I look up the stairs and see the glowing eyes of both cats, Peppy, Freddy, and my dog Barley.

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They come running to my side. The cats are purring, and the dog is licking my face. Damn, I love those guys. Now, it hits me who really loves me. “You guys are great!” “Screwed by my Human family.” Poor Barley is so old, but he still tries nozzle me to stand up. Even the cats try nuzzling me to try and get me to stand. “Thanks guys, I am getting up now!” I won't lie it wasn't easy, as my bones creaked, but damn, I cheated death once again. As hobbled up the basement stairs, I made it back into the kitchen and gave all the animals treats. If I had kept a gun in the house, there might have been a few adult members of my family who would suffered my wrath. I realized that mass murdering my family would destroy my good guy imagine on CBS Sunday morning, but I could develop a cult following and a lot of women groupies who love men on death row. Crap, I am too tired to bury bodies of these ingrates. This moment, brought me back to realize that my house now harbored little ones designed to doom me to retreat to old people's home. You know a warehouse for old people. NO! Never. I will fight back. A surge of adrenaline coursed through my old veins, as I HAD survived falling off a forklift, survived Nixon sending me to Vietnam. How bad can a couple of little tikes be? However, I am now aware that the enemy was as clever and as dangerous as the Viet Cong. I realized that my Grand-kids could be dropping booby traps all over the house. I will be vigilant and defend myself. NO MORE MISTER NICE GUY!

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This could be the Tea-party's first attempt to reduce the social security rolls. I see it now. My flashbacks are occurring, which make me I was back in Vietnam. Yes, unlike my Son, I actually served in the military and in combat; while the closest my son gets to combat is when his co-host, Mika, is on a tear with PMS. The dog and cats watch me lovingly, while I will and push my body up off the basement floor. They look concerned and wait until I make it to the stairs and then follow slowly as make it back up the stairs to the kitchen. Christ my knee hurts. I think about suing my son over his kids and their booby traps. I make into the bedroom, while I see my wife sound of asleep and snoring. Just great, maybe I should have stuck it out with Moonbeam Montana. That commune wasn't so bad? If you fell when you were stoned, at least they tried to help you up and said, “Are you okay, Dude!” These are mean times, so I take a swig out of the NyQuil bottle and hit the sack, hoping that his is all bad dream. Maybe this just a bad trip, since I did rustle through my old albums, and there could have been some leftover LSD on one of the covers. Hmm,,, No, it's not a bummer of trip. It is just life. I am going to talk to the wife about going on vacation. Somehow, I think. I have already overdosed on the son and his family. What I need want is a road trip speeding away from the family,that sounds great. “Agh,,,,wah.... wah....,ugh....” The sound of YOKO ONO singing was now coming from the quest room. Holy crap, what the hell! I look at the clock radio and see it is the lovely time of four a.m.

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Just great, no its not YOKO breaking into my house and giving an impromptu concert, but its those grand-kids. The little ones are now using the torture method of sleep depredation. “Jesus Christ, they had better shut up those kids.” The wife shoots me the look: “Just go back to bed!” My wife who could sleep normally through a fourth July fire works display is even up. “shuss.. Don't worry they will get them back to bed.” My wife says this as the eternal optimist. I, however, know better. I watched the clock like it counted the minutes to my demise. Now, I decided it should be mandatory to leave this toddler tedium and take a nice trip somewhere. Someplace where they don't allow children. Jesus, the only place where they don't allow the pampered brats is a prison. ****************************************** The kids keep on chattering, so I decided just to go and make breakfast and spike the kids' milk with NyQuil, and heaping rounds of hash brownies, so I can get some sleep. OK, I am just kidding, those of you who my work for social services or a child welfare bureau. I see Willie is sitting drinking his morning coffee and beaming like he just won the lotto. “HI Dad, we are just getting ready for our vacation.” Willie is used to getting up early, but I want to kill him for being perky. “WHAT DID YOU SAY, CHUCKLEHEAD?” Willie puts on the charm and dimples, and smiles while pouring his morning cup of coffee. “I want to thank you and Mom for watching the kids, while we go to Vegas for a mini-vacation.”

16 “WHAT? I NEVER AGREED TO THAT CHUCKLEHEAD!” Willie looked stunned, but he knew that my TV persona of being Mr. Nice guy was TV make believe. “But... Dad... Mom already agreed, and we have the airline tickets, and the rooms already booked.” “Jesus H. Christ, chuckle-head you need to save you money not wasted it in Lost Wages.” “But Dad, the rooms are free as Pat Buchanan pulled a few strings as a member of his GOP PAC, so the trip is basically a freebie.” Willie's dimpled cheeks smiling may work on the idiots who watch him on way to early, but I wasn't born yesterday. “Well, chuckle-head, it's time to face the fact that life is a bitch, and sometimes you can't always have life that is just fun and games.” As I gave Willie the next part of the lesson, his mind must of gone to a blackjack game in Vegas, or a big wager on the Yankees. But like an idiot, I kept on ranting and raving: “Losing money in Vegas, is no way to get a house, unless it is made out of cardboard.” This caused Willie to go to his Mother and play his ace card. You see. My wife's favorite child is Willie. I decide to start a family meeting by yelling at my wife. “JODY... MY DEAR WIFE, COME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST.” After I yelled this, I realized I made a staggering blunder, the wife is going to side with her favorite and leave me to some sort of hellish revenge, that involved diapers, depression and sleep depredation.

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My wife staggers into the kitchen, and shoots me the evil eye. “What's all this shouting about, for god's sake Bill.” I shot back the Grandpa evil eye, since I am old, why not go out fighting. “Well, I wish you had told me, I would be forced into baby-sitting while Chuckle-head goes on vacation.” “Don't be a cry baby, Bill, for Christ sake's, they are your Grand kids.” The wife was laying out the Grandfather guilt trip on me. This worked, until I realized that the grand-kids ages are two and four. Lucie Joy is four and full of energy, and her brother George is in his terrible two's. Mathematically, I am screwed: I am sixty six, with bad knees, and move about as fast as tree sloth. I realized to keep track of these little monkeys'. I would have to go to Walmart and buy those leashes that allow to keep the grand-kids less mobile. You just got to tie them securely to a tree or a dump truck and hope that they can't untie the knots. I was out of practice and facing a Sandi Kovaks fast ball to the head when it came to remembering how to feed and care for those adorable kids, who are the future of America. After the awkward breakfast of eggs and kids cereal, I found out the horrible truth that my Grand-kids. The little adorable grand-kids had the table manners of the Three-stooges. George, although just two years old could amazing projectile vomit at will. George also seemed to have a mechanical adaptive ability previous unknown to the Geist clan.

18 George could dismantle the his height chair and begin tap dancing on the kitchen table, like Billy Preston at the Concert for Bangladesh. (check “That's the way God planned on Utube. It's great) My Granddaughter, Lucie, thankfully had the table manners that mirrored a Bravo food critic. “I hate this. NO! Not going to eat this!” This was why, I double-dosed myself with high blood pressure medicine and started silently crying that I was beaten by those midgets into submission. Before this could all sink in. It was ten a.m. A limo pulled up and my Willie grasped two giant suitcases and ran with my daughter-inlaw into a limo. Willie slipped the driver some money, and the limo did a burn out,with tires smoking out of our once tranquil block. I sat down and sighed and inhaled the fumes hoping to die. Thankfully, I had my pets and the wife will surely lend a hand with her grand-children. I am not sure who passed out first, but thankfully, my wife had got the kids to take a nap. I too took a nap and dreamed of my youth, when I was partying, and frolicking naked with Moonbeam. It was a great dream. Not a toddler in sight. When I finally awoke, all my pets were staring at me with a look that seemed to say: “WHY DID YOU LET THEM IN THE HOUSE?” I know it sounds like a lot of anthropomorphic nonsense, but I truly believe that they sensed fear, as the toddlers represented a kid quake of destruction. They were right, good bless um.

19 If I let my guard down to their basic evil nature, I would face a broken hip as the little ones set ingenuous traps. With my bad eyesight and a mind that tends to wander, I was immediately tripped by cars, blocks, puppets that were hidden all over the house. Worse yet, my house was losing value faster than a Greek bond. My home now looked like it been hit with kid bomb. Friggin Toys everywhere! I designed a plan to save my life. My solution was simple, sell most all the toys on EBAY, but when the wife found the account, she hid my computer. I realized I needed an Allie, and that certainly wasn't my wife. The only truly loyal members ever in my life, are my pets. Yes, that's it! The kids caused me to train Barley to become a kid herder, not a sheep herder, and those two kids gave me and the dog a workout. Whenever, I couldn't get the leash on the kids, Barley would help me round up the little lost sheep. Both the dog and myself were getting winded. I had been bamboozled into this while my wife designed her day around her activities. This was pure evil and ode to woman's superior brain power. The wife would run out of the house after breakfast like Bruce Jenner in his prime, while yelling out: “I have my tennis lesson.” All of sudden she would surprise with her volunteering at the Library or playing Bridge with the ladies of leisure. Hours would go by and it was just me and the grand-kids, while I would attempt to keep my sanity, only to feel like Charlie Sheen crashing after a coke binge.

20 She would walk in and find me passed out with kids, cats and dog all sleeping on me. This I felt was a plot to kill me for the life insurance. My wife taps me on the shoulder and says with glint and smirk on her face “Take a break, Bill. I will watch the grand-kids.” I turn to my real family my pets and say, “let's blow this popstand.” The pets and I exist stage left to the kitchen and then to the Patio. “WE need food, guys.” My helpers and friends will be treated like kings, so I open up the fridge and get out Ham, cantaloupe, Italian toast and make our festival to food. I see my pet friend's joy, as food in the animal world shows love, just like the humans treating that special one to that overpriced French bistro strokes the ego. “Ah, a moment of peace.” I cut up the melon and wrap them with ham. The dog and cats line up in an orderly manner with the exquisite table manners of Emily Post in comparison to my Grandchildren. I stare into my backyard. Neighbors who have walled up their homes with giant hedges, and enforced lawn rules telling me that the lawn police are forever. Not a friendly one exists in the block, until they find I am on TV. Then their fame brain makes them get friendlier. I see the newest neighbor having one of those tree houses for the kids erected in honor of the poor saps misguided worship of his children. A playhouse being built by illegals. Even with cheap labor the thing going to run about five to six thousand dollars, at least.

21 If that neighbor had bothered to converse with me, and ask my opinion about building one of those monstrosity's; I would have pointed blankly and told him the truth: “It is like flushing money down a toilet.” Honestly, it is like just blowing the cash on something the kids will try once or twice. Kids have some sort code or more some sort of unwritten kid doctrine; the little ones will ignore their castle until the termites eat it away or a gust of wind turns it into kindling. Truthfully, I saw as a kid, when Ricky Stulz's father built his tree house of affluence. Previously, the kid had built his own tree house. It was a mess,unsound in structural integrity, but it was done with kid's incompetent hands and pride. It was just a hodge-podge of wood, strung together with less thought than a chimp uses to build their tree nests. Yet, when it was built by kids, it was used by kids. However, the Stulz family,especially, Mamma Rose, decided this was not could enough to house her son in the style he was destined for. So, old man Stulz, a very handy man, built sort of a pyramid to the kid's ego. It was an incredible sight. Back then I was so impressed with the structure; I took a picture of it for posterity, sort of like going to Machu Picchu on a budget. Those were the days my friend. We thought they would never end. Yes! When America actually built something. You should have seen the buildings, even high-ways and skyscrapers going up. Now, the flashbacks of my childhood return. My childhood, was like the good, the bad and the ugly. When you see your time growing short you all of sudden long for nostalgia.

22 The time machine of Utube and your favorite band, old photos, the dangers of meeting your ex on fake book are the new drugs for a flashback. These can all take you back to into a time when we were optimistic. I too had hooked myself into the past, hoping to jingle and jangle my way back to a happiness. I got immersed into pieces the past into photos,clips, music montages of my meager existence. Before the grand-kids arrived, I had advanced technological and downloaded and scanned my history of madness onto my PC, and smart-phone. So here is the picture of Ricky's Stulz's tree house.

23 My cell-phone rings and the number is stated Lost Wages. Willie my son, who left me in grand-dad hell, has finally called to check in. “Hello, this is Geist's home of kid rental and adoption services, how may I help you!” “Hi Pops, how's is it going? How are the kids?” “The kids are fine, but I will need years of therapy.” “Pops, I was on a winning streak. I have got some gift money for you, and I am sending the kids a present to the house, so they have it before we get, home.” “Great Son, now maybe, you can pay me some rent or at least contribute to the food fund, since your kids are eating me out of house and home.” Willie doesn't confirm the concept of rent. So, I to inform him that his son could be the star baseball player, of the family to hope he returned some of my cash. “You know. George has a great arm. He threw the fish sticks across the kitchen and hit the cats.” “Yeah, George is a handful. But maybe he will sign with the Yankees” I pause and want to remind Chucklehead that life is not always the Yankees. “You know Chuckles with your luck. He will sign with the Cubs.” “Well, Pops I have to go with the wife shoe shopping.” “Son, save some money, so you can get out of my house.”

24 “Will do, Dad, gotta go.” As I hung up, I realized that I could end-up a permanent babysitter. Man, if Willie doesn't get his shit together, I could keel over dead picking tomatoes and chasing the grand-kids like in the Godfather. I must try to get mellow. I look into the Kitchen window to check for the wife not spying on me. For right now, I am just going to get mellow with my pets. The cats are now sitting up like dogs waiting for the last of the ham wrapped melon, Barley is eyeballing the last of the bread, while I pull a joint out of my pocket and like the doobie up. Well, it felt like a month, but while me the pets worked on surviving with those little creatures. My wife allowed me one golf Saturday, but even on the course; I knew she was up to something. What I didn't know was Willie had special ordered one those custom-made play houses for his progeny built in MY BACKYARD! Then it hit me. They accidentally built me a hiding place. You see the kids did try the playhouse once then got bored, never to go near it again. BINGO, GRANDPA FINALLY GOT A GIFT! It was great, I and my true family (the pets) hang out in my new outdoor man cave, score one for the old guy. I finally don't have to worry about getting stuck in the basement.

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