Well here's just a random story that I ran across recently for your reading entertainment. I don't know where it was originally posted but I thought it was worth the read.
A while back, there was a youtube video that made the internet rounds of a father who tricked his child into playing a flash hand-eye coordination game that suddenly scares near the end. This guy made a mesage In response to the video, reminiscing about his childhood scare. I was crying because I was laughing so hard after reading this. Humor requires a victim. I must remember this. It's just so cruel and hilarious.
Some foul language....
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Full Version: Elderly Shenanigans.
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I'm going to have to disagree with calling that abuse. Doing so is a big part of why our society has become such a staggering pool of inept, unintelligent, unchallenged, self-deified pussies. Having your father/uncle/grandpa/grandma terrify the living shit out of you is an important part of your trek into adulthood. It's usually our first true example of the fact that 'things are not always as they seem'. I remember when my grandmother decided to permanently scar me, god bless her heart Smile. She lives in a very old building, one she has all her life. It's around 75 years old maybe? Anyway, it has three levels of basement, good old fashioned psychotic architecture that is. The first is a partially finished basement, you know the type. Exposed leaky pipes, stone foundation with floorboards loosely applied over it. One lone tall door in the back corner, which leads to a tight staircase (the square-spiral type) that goes down to the next level. The unfinished 'basement basement' as my little brother always called it. A single room with a ingle lightbulb hanging from a string, stone floors with no boards, light mold, slime.... not a party room. In the middle of this room, is the nightmare cellar of preteen fucking DOOM. A wooden trapdoor that weighs about 90 million pounds (when you're 10 years old at least) with a rusty chain for the grip. A line of stairs leads into the center of a tiny, earthen room of seemingly NO sane purpose. And to make it worse, it had the lovely type of steps, the kind with the open-back construction? the ones that just scream "I'm going to grab your ankles before you make it halfway down into this pit of doom, and then I'm going to feast on your entrails" wheeeeee. So, me and my little brother are staying with her (as we occasionally did, I suppose whenever our parents wanted to fuck around without two brats screaming in the next room, can't blame them) on the second week of november. Halloween has just passed, and horror was weakening and giving way to the unstoppable onslaught of christmas presents and fattening food. Except in my demented grandmothers mind. One night, she let me and my brother stay up past our bedtime (10 pm) to watch movies on her tiny grainy black and white tv. I was 10, and my brother was 7, and as previously mentioned, halloween was barely past. So naturally, we picked horror movies. She didn't even suggest stopping us. My little brother didn't make it long, a kid that age, he passed out around 10:45. I stayed up, god, I can't remember how long, but it had to be close to midnight. That's when the evil old bat sprung her trap. She called out to me from the other room, sounding very tired and weak. She said that her hips were hurting her very badly all of the sudden, and she was going to have trouble getting up the steps to her bedroom. I'm a good boy, of course I offered to help her. No no no, that's not necessary, can you just get my walking stick? Sure grandma, where is it? The cellar. *whimper* I'm allready about to piss my pants, going down into the fucking cellar with a flashlight at midnight in the fall to get my poor old grandmothers no doubt ancient walking stick. I don't even know what it looks like, so I'm going to have to root around in the pitch black EARTHEN FUCKING CELLAR three levels down from the precious precious above-world. I go down into the basement. I turn on EVERY LIGHT the room has to offer, and stop to get my breath and bearings. You know what things are like at that age. 10 years old? Holy crap, getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night makes your breath quicken with fear, let alone my ancient grandmothers unfinished basement. Knowing the worst was yet to come. I open the door to the spiral stairs. It's one of those old doors, before everything was cut to a standard and matching everything else in the world? It's about 9 inches too thin and 2 feet too tall. Stained with dripping water. I'm actually getting nervous just thinking about that damned door. I go down the steps, frantically scanning everything with the flashlight, shaking, shivering, reaching again and again for the strand to pull to light the overhead bulb. Turning on the light didn't exactly help, the swinging "hitchcock's psycho" dim yellow bulb in that god forsaken room. I was probably crying a little at this point, I was a wuss back then. But I'm not a selfish prick, you know? My poor old grandma can't even make it up the finished carpetted steps to her bedroom, how can she navigate this trecherous pit? in the dark? So I press on. I open the trapdoor. I descend. I distinctly remember crying at this point I'm so scared. I'm frantically looking for something that looks like a walking stick. And I hear it. Heavy, scraping footsteps coming down the spiral stairs. Not my grandmothers footsteps. Not the paddly tiny footsteps of my little brother. Heavy. Scraping. Pounding. Slow footsteps. I'm allready frozen with terror. Standing there at the bottom of the steps in the earth cellar. I swear to god my hands are shaking right now remembering it. The noise crosses the room, and stops at the top of the steps. I turn the flashlight up? My grandmothers. Standing there in a torn, bloodied nightgown. Her face and arms painted dead white. Her eyes and lips painted black. Picture an 80 year old woman like that and tell me it's not terrifying. She's shaking oddly, alien movements. Twitching. She HOWLS my name, and starts coming down the steps. I'm man enough to admit it. I was shrieking like a 3 year old girl standing on broken glass watching a puppy being strangled. I SHRIEKED. I sobbed. I RAN. I ran like a chicken with my head cut off from her, I managed to get behind her (of course she let me do so) and she chased me. All the way back up the cellar steps. Across the room. Up the spiral stairs. Across the unfinished basement. Up the basement steps. From the back of her house to her living room. CHASED me. Like a wild animal. Howling my name like a banshee. My brother woke up and started screaming and crying too, I jumped on the couch, we hugged, we're sobbing like girls. My grandmother FALLS THE FUCK OVER laughing so hard. Laying on the ground across the room, in a bloody torn nightgown, in fright makeup, laughing so hard she can't breath. BITCH. We were so traumatized that my mother had to DRIVE OUT THERE AT MIDNIGHT to take us home (grandma is still laughing). Mom's pissed, dad's pissed, me and my brother won't stop crying, grandma is laaaaughing and laaaaughing. In retrospect, my parents thought it was funny too. Not me and my brother. We hated them. All of them. We slept in the same bed for months, we didn't stop having nightmares for weeks, I couldn't even hug my grandma without crying at thanksgiving (was better sometime around january). But looking back? That, was AWESOME. Holy crap that was awesome. I am so glad that she did that, I wouldn't be the man I am today if she hadn't. I have tasted a traumatizing, life threatening fear that few will feel in their lives. I need to call her up and thank her, so we can laugh about that. Thank you grandma. Thank you you crazy old fucker  |
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