So who’s the cross-eyed, snaggletoothed, speedo wearing hunka hunka burning flames? That’s my good pal, Ralph. Click the link here for a brief introduction if you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the wacky feller yet.
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March 19, 2013
Dear Chris the Buttmuncher,
Whad’ya say buddy old pal? How the heck you been? I figured I mine as well fill you in on everything that’s been going on round here since it’s been a while.
For the most part, things is pretty much the same as they’ve always been. Pap is still grumpier than ever, Gram is still loonier than a jaybird, and Uncle Rodger still smells like he rolled around in muenster cheese and vidalia onions. I bet the last time he stepped foot in a shower was when color TV was first invented. Don’t tell him I said that neither, cause he’s likely to go on one of his holy tirades and throw a major hissy fit. I swear the only reason he was put on this earth is to drink Old Milwaukees and to make my life as miserable as possible. He’s doing a pretty good job at both of them too, trust me.
I’m still living with Gram and Pap. It’s a royal pain in the behind most days. Me and Pap fight like cats and dogs. We argue over just about everything. He wants to listen to Sinatra, I want to listen to Slipknot. He wants to watch It’s A Wonderful Life, I want to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It goes on like this all day long. And then there’s Gram. You up and ask her anything and she just starts clucking like a chicken or barking like a puppy dog. Pap says that’s cause her mind has gone and checked itself into the funny farm. It is pretty funny too, I half to admit, especially when she scarfs down an entire tub of Country Crock churn style butter before I half to tell her “Gram, that ain’t the vanilla ice cream you numbskull!” She’s something else, I swear.
All my friends keep telling me “Ralph, how’s come you still live with your grandparents? By God you’re 28 years old. Ain’t it high tied you moved out and got your own place?” But I don’t pay no attention to them losers, because even though Gram has gone psycho and calls me Kathy instead of Ralph, at least she’ll set there and listen to my stories about slaying dragons and killing flesh eating zombies. That’s more than I can say for Pap. He don’t like my stories and he makes no beans about it. It just gets us to arguing all over again. So what else is new right? Same old same old.
Even though living with Gram and Pap is a pain in the royal behind and we fight a lot, I’d probably be completely lost if it wasn’t for them. It’ll be a sad day when them two geezers finally bite the dust – which I remind them could be any day now, but of course Pap don’t wanna hear it and Gram just starts laughing her head off like a pack of wild hyenas.
I guess nothing too, too major happened over the past year that I can think of except Gram got the shingles, Pap had a stroke and swears he seen Jesus, Uncle Roger spent a few months in jail, I joined a heavy metal band, and my best friend Krueger burned half his face off one afternoon cause me and him was in the backyard practicing to become fire breathers. He had to have several surgeries but he’s okay for the most part other than his face looks like somebody took a meat cleaver to the side of it kinda like Freddy Krueger in them Nightmare on Elm Street horror flicks. That’s actually how’s come I call him Krueger, but he don’t mind the nickname all that much. He says having a mangled up face is a good icebreaker when it comes to meeting chicks. Of course me and him is still single, so I don’t know that it’s helping him out all that much. You’ll half to meet him sometime. He’s a real character.
I guess that just about covers everything for now. I’ll try to write you sooner the next time. Stay outta trouble and I promise not to do the same.
Your good buddy,
Ralph
The Dimwit Diary 