From: Dammit <firstname.lastname@example.org> Newsgroups: alt.fan.tom-servo Subject: Sad news about Grandpa Hole! Date: Mon, 21 Aug 2000 03:52:17 -0400 Message-ID: <email@example.com> I really don't know how to break this to the group. I know how Very Fond everyone is of Grandpa Hole, and how we appreciated the things he did to liven up the newsgroup while Mr. Hole was on his travels. In fact, I'd leave Mr. Hole to break the news - it's not really my place to step in. But, considering the difficulty Mr. Hole may have talking about it during This Sad Time (note how he still posted "Day 232" bravely, but without comment), I see it as my duty to inform the NG that Grandpa Hole, as of Saturday night, has gone on to a Better Place. Now how do I figure into this, you ask? Well, our little family is moving Northwards from the Florida Swamplands, and to tell the truth I haven't quite been myself in recent days, because of it. This is actually our second move in 3 years, and once again I'm left with kidlets et. al to work out the details and pack the boxes while SomeBody Else gets to live large and watch weekend airshows from 47th floor penthouses at the behest of Venture Capitalists - LA DE DA - while I continue to deal with hairballs and busted disposals and do I freaking get rid of his old big collar jackets and bell bottoms already at the garage sale because it's close enough to Halloween, but I'll probably catch all hell and "Where are my old Robotics Age Magazines You Know They're Priceless" give me a freaking break! How much of this junk is *he* packing? Um. Sorry. I digress. Anyway, I was going to fly out to see about new digs for the family, but at the last minute he tells me he's what - already signed a lease. So here I am with a round trip ticket and yes, maybe a little hostility, and he says - hey, turn it in, it's refundable. Hmm. If it's refundable, mightn't it be exchangeable? Bingo! Here I am, feeling sorry for myself and my stresses, and it occurs to me that there's someone out there that's much more alone, who reached out to us on AFT-S when our little group was missing the presence of one (or more!) of its most inspired characters, but do we ever write? Do we visit? So that was it. I got out the phone and went through every area code in Pennsylvania until I found the Golden Slipper Retirement Community. Not particularly close to the Philly Airport, but close enough. Before we go any further with my tale, I must remind my fellow servites that never in my life, to my knowledge, have I ever been responsible for physical harm to another human being. This, and that my knowledge of pharmaceutical interactions are necessarily limited by the numerous times I've had to miss Dr. Dean Edell's teevee reports, due to family concerns. *And* my regular Mexican pharmacist is on sabbatical in the Yucatan. Okay. Grandpa greeted me at the door of his room - which by the way has a very nice Southern Exposure AND basic cable, with a characteristically crusty interrogation that left me with no doubt that I'd found the person I'd come to see. "Who the Hell are YOU?" Those were his exact words. Even much the same inflection and cadence as Ray Walston (who I'd always envisioned when imagining Huckleberry Hole), except for the smoker's cough. But what's a little phlegm, when you've come so far, to see someone? And handsome...! In a wirey kind of way - again, my mental comparison to the aforementioned renowned thespian was not without some basis in actual fact. Grandpa had eyes bluer than the deepest Clearwater Swimming Hole! Anyway, after exchanging the usual pleasantries and failing to respond to his earnest entreaties to be on my way, I was eventually admitted into Grandpa's sanctum sanctorum, on the premise of providing me with a glass of water and showing some family pictures before sending me on my way. (Just as an aside, Mr. Hole sure was a cute little tyke. I'm still not entirely clear though on which one of Grandpa's ex-es was his Gram. In fact, Grandpa's album would seem to suggest that there was something of a continuous stream of "Auntie-Grandmas". But again, I digress.) I suppose that first, I worked on closing the personal space. Nothing intentional, in fact considering the state of Grandpa's hearing, it was necessary to strive for close proximity in order to continue our delightful conversation. What was alarming was that the man kept backing up, and bumping into things. One was a nightstand, and as he stumbled, he took the opportunity to fish out a phone book and call my attention to several bookmarked pages documenting various statistic about the book, and how categories of listings compared, numerically and demographically, to that of other municipalities. Of course, the book was heavy, so I insisted that Grandpa come down and sit by me on the bed. (Now shame on anyone thinking untoward thoughts! - the room was just a little small, for chairs.) What ensued, I ensure you all, was entirely unexpected to us both. (Okay, I had the Viagra in my purse but that's just part of the little emergency kit I carry.) One minute, old Huck was just spouting off - something like: "I'll have you know I only have feeling in 40% of my body, young lady, so don't be getting any ideas", and the next... I blame myself, of course. I should have known better. Should have called 911 as soon as he started crying out "The Blue-Green Haze! The Blue-Green Haze!" - but again, my knowledge of pharmacological side effects is woefully incomplete. I really did think that for some reason, at that moment, Mr. Hole was choosing to begin a conversation about the weather. And then, of course, he reached for the wall, and pulled the "assist" cord. Out of respect for Grandpa's personal dignity, I made my quickest, most discreet departure from the Golden Slipper, but not before admonishing the EMT to make sure the all of Horatio's Hole's person was put at rest (if you know what I mean, AITYD) as part of making him presentable for family. I did call Mr. Hole from the airport (at 4:00 this A.M., from the Philly airport bar), and trust that once the pain of his loss is not quite so fresh, he will forgive me for a small act of weakness, meant in kindness, that turned out so poorly. (I will say that it was a pleasant novelty to be referred to during this phone call as "jailbait" by someone 10 or more years my junior. Or at least I assumed that Mr. Hole is my junior, when he didn't understand the "Boogie Nights" reference I made in trying to explain Grandpa's passing.) Mr. Hole: As Ghod as my witness, your Grandpa died happy! I hope that Mr. Hole can find some gentle way to break the news to his great-grandpap. It's my understanding that Horatio Hole is a little frail, and that Grandpa was his last surviving son. Flowers may be sent to Bob Hope, upon whom Grandpa bestowed his all-forgiving benediction, with his last breath. "See you soon, Bob. See you in hell." That kidder. We'll miss him. Sincerely, Petra Kelly Inventor of Petroleum Jelly Posting from LisaB's account X-no-archive: oh, you BETCHA. "It pisses me off that Mr. Hole is Dead." - Brian Rodenborn
Later posted by Huckleberry's grandson, Mr. Hole: (excerpt)From: The Pestiferous but content Mr. Hole <firstname.lastname@example.org> Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2001 05:47:33 GMT Message ID: <email@example.com>I forgave LisaB for murdering my Grandfather only after she made public the news that she was pregnant. Naturally she maintains that the child was fathered by her husband Jack, but we all know what really went down. I am anxiously awaiting the birth of my new Aunt, or Uncle.
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