Families are never easy, are they? Those pictures on the walls of most Canadian homes that show grinning offspring hide the fact that a goodly number are sharpening the knives, at least allegorically, over assumed inheritances.
In our cave, for instance, I feel the hot breath of greed almost every day from the little gumboils whose baby photographs festoon our hallways.
I understand their need for us to exit from this life and make room for them, but it does not accomplish that end to push us too egregiously. It is unseemly and we deserve better.
Let me set the stage for you concerning the latest outrage. My wife of some 50 years and I have a slew of grandchildren, one of whom is called Tit-willow, as her mother was a great lover of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado.
My son and “Yum-Yum” (Carol) have been divorced for years after a very acrimonious marriage due in part to her incessant whistling of D’Oyly Carte CDs. Their child now goes by the nickname of Tillow, as anything else seemed in bad taste.
Last year, this grandchild opened several nail salons predicated on the idea that crazed mothers would have their children’s photographs superimposed on the end of their fingers. The idea failed miserably, because as the nails grew the children became oblong with huge foreheads. The stores are now closed, with several lawsuits pending because of the indelible qualities of the nail-polish portraits.
It is no secret amongst family members that Tillow is in urgent need of funds, but her put-upon father refuses to pour any more loonies into stores while his ex, Yum-Yum, is off whistling somewhere. Tillow has turned her sights on me in order to fill her personal exchequer. In short, she wants me to expire, and quickly. Naturally I resent this, and I have told her I will bloody well go when I am ready and not before, thank you.
As a result, she has started to send me emails that start with the line “You are getting very woozy…” in a childish attempt to psychosomatically kill me. I am almost incoherent with rage when I think about it: A grandchild from my loins is trying to get me to hand in the lunchpail. Well, I am not having it.
Worst of all, she signs these death wishes “Rupert Balloon,” which was the name of her blasted teddy when she was but a small psychopath. The fact that she thinks I don’t know who is behind them shows she verges on an idiot.
I well recall my Great Aunt Daisy being pressured by my brother Toby, who was a bit short of the dosh after a reversal or two in his early days of business. He kept jumping out of closets suddenly, in an attempt to frighten her from the planet.
He also used to paint eerie smiles on the fox faces of her furs. It did not work at all, for when she passed she left all her lucre for city park benches. Toby went off his head for a while and was arrested more than once for relieving himself on her gifts to the people. My brother is now a civil government official and quite happy, as there is a place in our government for everybody.
Sadly, as I look from my upstairs study, I can see our Tillow attempting to surreptitiously construct a scarecrow in our back garden, no doubt to terrify me into saying adios. Phooey.
I am calling my lawyer, “Slippery Sam,” this afternoon to make an adjustment to my will. If only I could be around to see her face and watch a half-eaten prawn fall from her hand as Sam reads my last words: “… And to my darling Tillow [pause while smiling], nothing!”
Be nice to us.
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