Digging up Dead Dogs (and Other Great Family Stories)

Everyone has a few family stories that they love to tell anyone who will give up 5 minutes of their life to listen. A good family story must include some sort of gruesome injury, disgusting incident or embarrassing occurrence. If it does not include one of these requirements, it is most likely mind-crushingly boring and probably comes from a dull family that has no fun. Hopefully my stories will include some of this in them.
For my first story, I was very young, perhaps 6 or 7, and a rather foolish little gremlin. Me and my cousins were at the pearl city home of my great aunt and uncle (aka grandma and grandpa). Their backyard was (and still is) basically a jungle. It has trees that completely block out the sky, an unkempt undergrowth and a run down, rusted out hulk of a shed that nobody had entered since the Jurassic. This environment caused my cousins and I to think that it would be so totally cool to dig a big hole and find a new kind of dinosaur. Imagine how excited I was to discover the very first seanosaurus. Anyway, we somehow found some dirty old shovels, and after fighting each other to get the best shovel, we started our very first dino expedition. We had dug for what seemed like years when grandpa hobbled down the path to the backyard waving a stick at us and yelling for us to stop ruining his property. Naturally, we waited for him to go away and we continued with our little project. A few more pounds of dirt and a couple of plants later, and I hit something hard with my shovel. I lowered myself next to the object and dusted the excess dirt off. I was astonished - what I had found was a genuine bone! From my dinosaur books I had learned that after finding a bone, you had to make it look all nice, give it to a museum, put on glasses and get a bazillion dollars and a free sports car while a ton of people took pictures of you for the news. My cousins and I ran up to the house, probably making half the neighborhood deaf along the way, and, making sure no one else could see the bone and steal our find, we showed it to our parents. That's when I found out a little something I didn't know before. The backyard was where grandma and grandpa buried dead pets. The bone was from the dead dog Bobo. Oops.
We had to put the bone back in the hole and cover it up. Our grandpa waved his stick at us some more, and hid the shovels.
Next week we got the shovels and started over again.

Another day, back at home, I was around the same age and my grandpa on my mother's side was visiting. Grandpa Manuel was just plain awesome. He was a tennis fanatic, a fierce fan of Pete Sampras and he absolutely hated Andre Agassi. He called me Plum Plum and my sister Hasmeen. Why he did that escapes me, but he always did. He was just about the crustiest, eccentric, most Filipino and coolest person you could find. On that particular day my mom had to go to work, so me and my sister were left at home with Grandpa, which was a recipe for disaster. My sister and I were sitting around the TV watching yet another tennis game, when we decided to bug him about how hungry we were. he relented, and asked us what we wanted to eat. "Chicken noodle soup!!!" I shouted. "Saimin!!!!!!!!" my sister yelled. After thinking this over, Grandpa hatched an ingenious plan. Making both saimin and chicken noodle would take too long. Why not mix them together and cook them at the same time? Brilliant!
Needless to say this was completely disgusting. So Grandpa thought up another gem.
My mom came home to us sitting in the living room, watching tennis and eating - what else - marshmallows for lunch.

Here is another great Grandpa story. It takes place much more recently, a few years ago. He was visiting again from Manila and was left at home for a day while my mom was shopping. (I'm sensing a theme here). My sister and I were at our dad's house and were not there at the moment. My mom told Grandpa to call her every once in a while, so he did. "I cut my foot." he said. "It's bleeding everywhere, so don't be surprised when you come home." (Imagine all this in a thick Filipino accent). He was calm but my mom was not, and she rushed home. When she opened the door, it looked like a murder scene. Blood was all over the floor, carpet, everywhere. My Grandpa was sitting on the couch, completely normal looking. Of course, he hadn't just left his wound open and bleeding. No, he had duct-taped a slipper and dishtowel to his foot. Genius! It turns out he had dropped a knife through his foot. Typical Grandpa. My mom had rushed him to the hospital, and he promptly told the nurses that it was all my mom's fault. I started to look forward even more to Grandpa's visits.

Ok, that's all for now. I'm tired of typing, I'll post some other fun things (mainly centering on things I can't stand) later. Now I have to do my Bio homework. I think I'd rather find a sharp, rusty object and jam it in my eye, but you gotta do what you gotta do.