But what God gave my grandfather in affability he denied him in handyman skills. The guy (alav ha-shalom) sucked ass at home repairs. For 40 years, my grandparents' house was held together by a latticework of yellowing duct tape. Windows, bannisters, chairs ... you name it. My grandfather was a dipsomaniac man-spider.

As my grandparents got more wizened, they'd spend most of the day in two Lay-Z-Boys. This didn't give them much impetus to buy new chairs for the rest of us. Around 1993, you had four options, listed here in order of attractiveness: a) stand, b) the floor, c) two chairs that would spontaneously combust if you sat in them too hard (these were reserved for my parents), or d) the stabbing sofa (below -- I'm center).

Back then, our favored pastime was gatherin' 'round an itchy hound.

The stabbing sofa was a yellow Victorian sofa that my mom insists to this day was "a wonderful antique." Anybody junior enough to be sequestered to the damn thing knew the truth: that some colonial demonologist used the forbidden arts he learned in far Rangoon to build a Burmese tiger trap inside a loveseat.

This couch had a huge, hidden, rusty spring that could gore you square in the asshole if you sat on it wrong. My grandparents' solution was to toss a minor landfill's worth of decorative throws over it, which only goaded the coil to weave its way through the crochet like some butt-loving kraken tangled in a fisherman's seine. My siblings and I never complained because we were children and knew fuck-all about everything except the names of the Little Rascals.

The main reason Ghostbusters 2 destroyed us was that scene where a possessed bathtub tries to eat Sigourney Weaver. You know, this one:

Baths were already a dicey proposition, but that scene only confirmed our suspicions that my grandparents' old tub -- with its four-clawed feet, like the dread progeny of a lion and a bucket or the griffin's backwoods cousin -- was Baba Yaga's industrial child blender.

Yannick Trottier/Wikimedia Commons
This is not my grandparents' tub. That tub turned invisible in photographs.

Now, have any of you ever actually been in the presence of a claw-foot tub? It's Halloween every time you sit on the john. Now imagine you're literate as a bird, coordinated as a glue-addled gnome, and convinced you saw a National Geographic special about Ernie Hudson and the magic painting. Given that skill set, you'd be forgiven for assuming that bathing was a conspiracy drummed up by a cabal of Dracula and every shark on planet Earth. I smelled like garbage that summer.

But after that? Rhode Island was oblivion. Outside of the Ocean State, everybody lived forever in the Muppet pyramid. But once Mystic, Connecticut, faded in the rearview mirror, the specter of death blackened the Eastern horizon, a sickle in one ossified mitt, a glass of Autocrat brand coffee milk in the other.

Jonathan Baker/Wikimedia Commons
By the time we passed the 4,000-pound fiberglass termite on I-95, we'd entered the underworld.

How bad was it? Every time we visited, a new old dog was dead. Three of their four deaf cats were undone by a feline addiction to sleeping inside minivan wheel wells. As a toddler, my cousin jumped off their roof for laughs (he survived and is now a lawyer). My grandparents lived down the street from a cemetery, so the siblings and I often held chariot races using my grandparents' old wheelchairs, surrounded by corpses who voted Whig.

I already mentioned that my grandfather died in '95. But my grandmother? She kicked it over and over again, like Prometheus chained to the rock, eternally resurrected and consumed by a wake of vultures.

Theodoor Rombouts/Wikimedia Commons
For the metaphor's sake, please imagine that vulture's name is "Mr. Diabetes."

My mom's lost count of the number of heart attacks and strokes my grandmother had. (It was definitely over a dozen. None affected her mind.) One Christmas, she had a coronary at the dinner table but denied it because "everybody's having such a nice time." By the time she received an 11th-hour cancer diagnosis in '01, she and mom had no choice but to laugh their asses off.

But as the years wore on, they had trouble walking the dogs, between my grandfather's dementia and my grandmother's everything. Their solution was to saw a German shepherd-sized doggy door out of their bedroom wall and build a ramp wending outside to a large, stark concrete patio, which I guess was once an oyster garage (or however you say "shed" in New English).

My grandparents surrounded the patio with a tall chain-link fence so the dogs could poop outside but not bolt across the border to Massachusetts. (Note: This happened.) It was a serviceable lifehack as long as you never-ever-ever-ever thought about it.

Unfortunately, my siblings and I had to, as the dogs stole our stuff constantly. And when this happened, the only option was to wriggle out the doggy door into the crap paddock, where we gingerly fished scarves and shoes and hats and Gremlins 2 for Game Boy from an inland sea of fossilized turds.

Amblin/Universal
It was comparable to Jurassic Park, if Jurassic Park was about an insane billionaire who -- for perverted motives unknown -- traps the world's foremost scientific minds in a tropical labyrinth of manure and electrified fences.

The impartial observer would've assumed it was a penitentiary for bad shit or a nature preserve catering to Scheissefilme enthusiasts. Prowlers could've easily ransacked their home via the doggy door, but they'd have died of horror first.

My grandmother lived on her own from '95 to '98. This was impressive, considering that most of her internal organ function left for a farm upstate circa '91. She had zero interest in moving to a home, so we sold her house and she moved to New Jersey with us. I have no clue who bought her house, but I assume the current owner is haunted by hundreds of dogshit poltergeists.

My grandmother loved me. But the rest of the species? Bof. One of her favorite pastimes was swinging by the senior center and yelling at other, nicer old people. But in New Jersey, she couldn't drive, could barely walk, and didn't even have those Merlin-looking dumbfucks whose sole crime was being alive while her husband was dead.

My grandmother, with potassium, 1998.

My parents worked. I was doing puberty. My grandmother's day was sitting in a back room in an unfamiliar town, with no one to visit and nowhere to go. Her only company was a revolving cast of home health aides, infinite reruns of M*A*S*H*, and a six-pack of O'Douls (served daily, warm, at 9:00 a.m.).

When a new nurse quit, my grandmother fought with my mom, who fought with my dad. This was not the natural order of things. Grandparents died off screen under Halley's Comet, or at least went dotty to signify their impending return to the Gitche Manitou. (See: my dad's mom, whose brain cancer inspired her to start using "white trash" as a term of endearment.)

In the '40s, my grandmother almost ran into Hitler's motorcade while bicycling unawares through the woods. You're not supposed to survive the Fuhrer's car only to die in Jersey.

Hugging Harold Reynolds/WFMU
Home of the Trentonian, America's family newspaper!

This went on for three years. My grandmother withdrew, speaking only when I dropped off her rise-and-shine O'Douls, the beer that tastes like futility.

One Wednesday, my grandmother woke up loquacious. She went off her gumball galaxy of meds, took Confession for the first time in half a century, hit on the priest because what-the-hell-at-this-point, and stage-whispered a complaint when he didn't know Latin. She stopped breathing on Sunday, minutes after she finally knew all the grandchildren were under one roof.

trenton-star.blogspot.com
Here's another Trentonian headline to balance out the above paragraph.

We didn't have time to mourn my grandmother because the world was ending. She died on September 9, 2001, and anthrax contamination shuttered my neighborhood post office a month later. Driving her casket to Rhode Island near the Tappan Zee Bridge, we could see the pillars of dust hanging over Manhattan. When we reached the graveyard -- where I'd spent entire Julys pretending to be Professor X -- the only non-family members present were two neighbors and her ex-hairdresser. (They'd been locked in some tonsorial quarrel and never made amends.)

Even in death, Barney enjoyed a good photobomb.

My grandmother's sofa was made of tetanus and her backyard could only be cleansed by several thousand years of clergy-consecrated glacier. But that's just how I remember it. For her, that house was where, in 1968, my mom and her best friend inexplicably ate a rose to celebrate Mick Jagger's 25th birthday. The only way she'd have tolerated Jersey is if Medicare subsidized an O'Douls-fueled time machine -- an O'Doul-O'meter, if you will.

My grandparents in 1946. They are happy because that forest is not full of Nazis.

So, thanks for reading. I've basically never told this story to anyone, and I'm lucky that my lot in life is to discuss Wikipedia erotica on the Internet. Call your grandparents if they're alive and not totally dreadful. To ease you back into our regular scheduled programming, here's a final Trentonian headline captioned with unrelated, actual words of wisdom from my grandmother's mom:

mercifulcrap.worpress.com
"A good cheese smells like a dirty woman. A good wine tastes like the Virgin Mary pissing in your mouth."
-my great-grandmother (1897-1988)

Cyriaque Lamar is a senior editor here at Cracked. He is on Twitter and enjoys writing young adult fan fiction.

Let's help you forget those nostalgic nightmares. Check out 18 Instructional Charts for People Who Suck at Technology and 19 Things Old People Suspect About Modern Culture.