Titanium Hip Concerto in C Major

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Late Christmas Eve. A warped Mozart album warbles on the record player as the party guests begin to leave. I notice grandpa slumped under the mistletoe, shitfaced and disheveled, eyeing everyone with cynical amusement. He knocks back another shot of vodka and eggnog, calmly shucks off his sweat wilted t-shirt, then snatches grandma by the hair.

“Hey everybody, listen to this,” he says, pounding his knuckles into grandma’s newly constructed titanium hip, “my Brenda sounds like a kettle drum!”

Someone bumps the record player and Mozart screeches to a halt.

An eerie stillness fills the room.

All eyes are fixed on Grandpa.

He continues pummeling grandma’s artificial hip; the voracity of his punches intensifies with every blow.

The guests begin nudging each other and whispering. One of them says, “Sounds more like a hollow cantaloupe than a kettle drum.”

“I disagree,” someone else says, “I think she sounds like a soggy head of cabbage.”

A thin sheen of sweat glistens on grandpa’s chest, shoulders, and arms as he thumps at an ever-maddening pace.

Everyone continues to watch and listen.

A steady anticipation seems to build in the air.

“I think I can name that tune in five bruises or less,” Mrs. Weaver shouts from the back of the room. And there is a gentle round of applause as grandma slowly slumps to the floor.


The author’s web site is no longer, but here’s a linked to the archived website: http://web.archive.org/web/20041210143949/http://zygoteinmycoffee.com/

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