HUMOR

Grandma Smillew’s Reign of Terror

From explosions and raves to hot cocoa and hot air balloons

This piece was written in response to Monday Mashup #32 prompt by Jonathon Sawyer.

When Grandma Smillew emerged from her signature makeshift hot air balloon and walked up the driveway, it was with an improvised weapon, a baseball bat, a cup of hot cocoa and a leather bag filled with… something.

Getting past the odd assortment of dangerous weaponry she brandished as she clambered toward our front door, I knew from past experiences that she was a supercentenarian that knew how to have a good time. Though the neighbors she nearly gave heart attacks upon her arrival may tell you a different story, it was clear that whatever reckoning they got was one they’d duly earned. And though I’m not fully sure that the taser was necessary, I knew better than to question Grandma Smillew.

Her fun loving spirit revealed itself in full force when she flung the leather pouch into the air, deftly hitting it with her baseball bat, and sending a flurry of confetti raining down around the both of us. It was then that she took a dainty sip from her cup of cocoa. As colored fragments of paper cascaded down, I had no choice but to courteously welcome in the double blackbelt and civil war surviving senior into my home.

And though it demanded a certain “adjustment period” from my parents, to put matters lightly, they were actually quite quick to accept the living room being outfitted as a mixed martial arts studio.

It was the first all-night, drug-fueled rave that began to wear my parents down. Though Grandma Smillew earnestly insisted it would just be her and a couple of her “gal pals” watching Singin’ in the Rain that night, it quickly became clear that she had other plans as she discreetly welcomed in a DJ. By 10PM, it was evident that hot cocoa wasn’t the only thing on the minds of these aging centenarians and their impressively tattoo’d acquaintances (that I actually don’t recall ever seeing enter.)

By 11:30, NWA’s F*** the Police was blasting so abrasively that we began fielding calls from infuriated neighbors. We tried our best to assure them we had things under control. But it was precisely then that her inebriated grandson, Smillew Rahcuef, and his nefarious friends decided to crash the party and set up a beer keg in the middle of the living room.

“Who let the dogs out!? Who? Who?” He could be heard singing along with The Baha Men 2000 hit as a party hat hung from his head askew.

At 1AM, a thoroughly partied Smillew Rahcuef ushered in a costume-clad ensemble of musical instrument playing mascots to the Tuesday night revelry. His Grandma gave him a hearty high-five at this. As the man in the dolphin costume broke out a saxophone, though, even my parents seemed to agree that the night had taken a fortuitous turn.

After a high-octane barrage of 80s tunes and a surprisingly somber serenade to close the night, people began to funnel out from our home. A distant sun rose with a jarring cockadoodle doo, and sent a shirtless and lipstick-covered Smillew stumbling free from a pile of prostitutes and out into a new day.

It was when Grandma Smillew began making plans for the following night that it was clear the magnitude of the problem we had on our hands.

But my parents are good sports. They even generously allowed Grandma Smillew to sleep in the master bedroom as they adapted to life in the temporary basement encampment they so thoughtfully established for themselves!

Really, Grandma Smillew gave them little choice in the matter... but they seemed quite content sipping from jagged Chef Boyardee cans in the darkened cellar as Grandma Smillew and I acquainted ourselves with the now-resident DJ.

It was the “exploding box mishap,” though, that brought my parents near their breaking point. What this Abraham Lincoln-aged woman was doing with a box full of — what I can only assume were explosives — I’m not sure, but rest assured, it was not appreciated when Grandma Smillew asked the skittish baby boomers, “Wanna know what’s inside my cool, little box?”

The ensuing explosion was shockingly well-received, all things considered. By now, though, even I’d had enough. I could handle drug-fueled raves, mascots with musical instruments, and even a little NWA, but this was too far.

What little hearing my dad had left from his career playing music fled that day and has yet to return. It was within a week of the explosion that the two exasperated seniors began tending to a calendar, crossing out days with Xs until Grandma Smillew’s departure. When I asked Grandma Smillew if her party tactics might be a little draconian, she sentenced me to the basement.

The next day, we were in for a rude awakening. This was only in part due to the Thursday morning Nirvana that Grandma Smillew and the DJ had begun making habit.

After Nevermind came to a close, we were escorted upstairs from our shoddily erected soup-slurping dungeon by servants. When and how Grandma Smillew had acquired servants isn’t yet clear. But as they seated us at our dining room table, there was a warm cup of cocoa sitting at our seats. At the head of the table was Grandma Smillew, a smile on her face that had lost none of its warmth in her enduring centuries here on earth. But there was something maniacal about it.

“I’m the leader of this family now,” she explained commandingly. As we sipped her delectable cocoa, we were powerless to even argue. Of course, the newly acquired henchmen at her side didn’t exactly fill us with confidence either.

I had thought Grandma Smillew and I were friends for life. We even had BFF bracelets made when we were together in the Outback. But after all of this, I don’t know how she’ll ever be able to regain my trust again…

So that’s where things stand right now. I’m not sure if this is a story, or a desperate cry for help. Grandma Smillew has taken over our house and Smillew Rahcuef and his friends keep pilfering things from our fridge and leaving. The last time I saw him he was running away with our microwave.

If you see this message… know that I tried to tell the world our truth.