The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be.

Shit-tits and nipple-dicks. My other grandfather died. I was getting a little old to have a grandfather, but I'll miss him anyhow. I have a pretty good imagination, and even I can't conceive of a reason someone would dislike him. Except his wife. She had every reason to complain about him. After all, she was married to the greatest jester I've ever seen.

I remember him teaching us (my brothers and I) piano. We didn't tickle ivories, we smashed our fingers into the table while chanting "PEE-ANN-O, PEE-ANN-O." This was to inform the women-folk that we wanted our dessert. Sadly, the silly old bints never got the message, as our cake never arrived any faster (and was sometimes fed to the dog out of spite).

What with all the mass graves and genocide, being a jester in the army was difficult, but my Papa managed. Once he was done liberating Italy he and the other Canadian soldiers relieved themselves on the Tower of Pisa. That is how it came to lean. After drinking and chasing skirts in France, Italy, the Netherlands, and finally Germany (not to mention all that boring liberation business), Papa sent his troops home. You may not think of it, but someone had to stay behind and organize all the trips home. I suppose that was his punishment for repeatedly pranking superior officers (by putting all of their underwear in a bucket of water in the freezer).

Papa could create fun from boring, a trip to a sports game could be more fun than watching Sealy stocks rise as the Blue Jays shit the bed. Before every overpass he would yell at us to duck. For a kid, it's a fun game to spot bridges ahead of time and duck before your brothers. We would measure trips in numbers of bridges rather than hours or kilometres. I still do this, but it's tough to explain to the Ontario Provincial Police after you've rear-ended a Buick on the 401.

Whether awful or hilarious (or hilariously awful), Papa always had a joke ready. He used to tell us he was good at three subjects in school: recess, lunch, and arithmatic. It might sound like an old, lame joke, but that motherfucker could times his wobbly-assed tables. He could legitimately do a math problem before my stupid piano-hands could finger the cuntulator 'til it multiplied its orgasm by i*

I've lost my train of thought. Perhaps I should fire the conductor. Seriously Miguel, I hired you because I thought you could do the job for less money, don't be fucking around now. Anyway, even at 87, Papa was independent. Whether he was just putting chairs away after a card game or taking his scooter to visit his wife who had severe Alzheimers. On the way there he would make a point of honking at some 60 year olds and telling the "young whippersnappers to get out of the way". Yes, my grandfather called people whippersnappers. He was so independent he could win Euchre games without a partner. He could make it on a 9 and take all 5 tricks. If you don't play euchre, that means:
a) he was really good at Euchre
b) you are a piece of human garbage and should learn to play some fucking Euchre.

I came quick, the whore of the week yelled at me. Papa went quick and I thanked him for it. No need to watch a great man suffer. His senile wife had forgotten him, so he decided this plane of existence had nothing left to offer him. He went to jest in some other realm. I've always seen just two options when faced with tragedy: you can laugh, or you can cry. I choose to laugh and celebrate the good times.
To celebrate, my Papa always picked the most extravagent clothing, be it a flashing hat, or a singing tie, he was always prepared to catch people off guard. The manager at the retirement home made him sound like a lovable dog, "he was into everything here. He would play with everyone, he would make us all smile." However, my favourite comment came from a man who was described as crochety on a good day. As I was cleaning out Papa's room he came over and told me to "stop making so much god damn noise... and I miss your grandfather."

*This joke brought to you by Bo Burnham.