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92 YR. OLD GRANNY BEATS OFF INTRUDER WITH CANE!

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92 YR. OLD GRANNY BEATS OFF INTRUDER WITH CANE!
by Fannie Feazell

It was situated across the page from ads for miracle weight loss pills, psychic hotlines, and books on lock picking, motel management, and 100 Great Marshmallow Family Recipes from the Great Midwest.

It was above an article about a hermaphrodite stripper who was giving birth to Siamese triplets, which s/he had conceived with herself.

This is how it was written.

(Indicates taped notes of interview)

92 YR. OLD GRANNY BEATS OFF INTRUDER WITH CANE!
by Staff Writer

"Oh my God!" I thought, as I saw the huge shadow looming in my darkened bedroom.

("That ain't what I thought, whippersnapper. What I thought was, 'Son of a bitch!'" "Yeah, yeah. That's a pretty common reaction to stressful situations, like falling out of a plane without a parachute, or being attacked by a raging bull, but this is a family publication, lady." "Family? Are you kiddin' me? I read that last issue--the one about the fella who dived out a second story window into a pond to escape an enraged husband, and..." "Yeah, yeah. It stays 'oh my God'")

I'm 92 years old, but I still live alone...

("I don't need glasses or a hearing aid, and I still have enough of my own teeth to eat corn on the cob. Tell 'em that." "Lady, this is just going to be a half page story. If you want me to put in all the extras, we'll have to have a smaller photograph." *silence, thoughts* "Okay.")

I know that it's not all that safe, since Gotham is full of punks and thugs, but I'm of pioneer stock, and I'm not going to let the hooligans intimidate me.

("Pioneer stock? Young 'un, I said I was 92, not hunnerd an' fifty! How much history have you had? We had cars an' telephones an' everything when I was a kid." "Did you have computers and cable television?" "No." "You're pioneer stock.")

I know I should have locked my window, but I'm on the twelfth floor, with no fire escape on that window, so I thought it was safe enough to leave it open to catch a breeze, and I had the screen up, so none of my dogs could get out.

("None of my babies. I allus call them my babies." "Lady, we're running a story about Siamese septuplets right below this one. We don't want to confuse the readers.")

I was sleeping peacefully when I heard a noise. I know now that it was the screen being knocked out of the window, but I thought that it was just one of my pets.

("No I didn't! Ain't none of my babies ever made that much of a racket." "Look, it's called 'journalistic license', okay?" "We usta have a different name for it. We called it 'lying'." "Whatever. It makes a better read than saying you knew right away something was up.")

There was a lot of thudding, like someone running, and the door to my hall opened. I was just about blinded by the light from the hall, and I sat up and saw a great, hulking figure climbing through the window, and knew that I had only moments to act. I reached for my only weapon--the cane my late, beloved husband gave me.

("Oh, now that is a story! You know durn good and well that it was a sawed off baseball bat, and I bought that cane at Kmart on a blue light special in 1982." "Who's writing this thing?" "It's supposed to be me." "Well, it isn't. Let me get on with this.")

He saw me, and he started talking, telling me not to be scared, that he was the Batman, and he was chasing The Joker, who had just run through my apartment. I said, "Batman, eh? Well you can just call me Canewoman!"

("I never did! I've never said 'eh' in my life, and I said 'bullshit', I told you that!" "You have no flare for the dramatic." *writer, very stupidly, fails to notice eyes narrowing.*)

I caught him a good lick upside the head with my cane.
("Didn't do near as much good as I 'spected. That there costume of his went over the head, and I think that hood is like some sort of helmet." *sigh* "Was that some sort of comment, boy?" *rolls eyes* *writer fails to notice that Granny's dentures are now gritting together*)

He grabbed my arms to hold me off, and that was when my beloved pets came to my rescue! My six toy poodles launched a valiant attack on the huge hooligan.

("Their names are Tinky, Winky, Stinky, Blinky, Pinky, and The Brain." "I'm not listing their names. Geez, this is supposed to be a heartwarming tale of the seemingly helpless overcoming odds, not a comedy piece!")

None of them weigh more than six pounds, but they have the hearts of lions.

("Lions are cats. Wouldn't it be better to say they have the hearts of wolves, or Dobermans, or..." "Will you please let me write?")

They swarmed around him, attacking ferociously, barking loudly to raise attention.

("Didn't I laugh when that snotty Mrs. Forrester from next door came over to complain again, an' got knocked down by that crook running out into the hall?" "That reminds me--I need to talk to the neighbors, get their take on it." *silence* "You don't listen to her. She's unbalanced. She keeps cats. You ought to do an article about each one of my babies. I had to send Pinky to the vet to have scraps of rubber scraped out of his teeth. *thoughtful look* You know, I got a pretty good look at him while he was running out of the room. You know, that there suit of his had nipples on it. Why do you think he had nipples on it?" *shrug* "It's a kinky old world, Granny." "Well, yes, but don't the fetishists usually just cut the latex or leather out around the nipple area?" *stare* "How do you know about...?" "That's not part of the story, sonny.")

Then it was over. I have nothing but the greatest respect for our police officers...

("Not all of 'em, sonny. I got me a nephew who's the most apple-snitchin', donut-gobblin', speed-trap ridin', I-got-a-badge-so-my-shit-don't-stink goober of a blueback who ever..." "Will you please just shut up?" "Why, you...! Canewoman, huh?")

(There is a sudden flurry of thumps, yells, curses, yapping, and finally screams before the tape goes silent).

Next Issue:
Mysterious Attack on Billionaire Playboy

"No, those wounds were not caused by a midget call girl, and you can talk to my lawyers tomorrow," was the only comment we could get from tycoon Bruce Wayne when we questioned him about the mysterious lacerations to his calves and thighs.

Assault Charges Dismissed Against 92 yr. Old Granny in 'Truth in Tabloids Attack' Case

The DA said, "Hell no, I'm not going to try this. The guy wasn't seriously hurt, the defense fund is already up to $10,000 dollars ($5,000 from the Wayne Foundation), and Granny has just signed a deal to have a movie of the week made about her story, with the reporter playing himself, if he agrees to go without a stuntman. Everyone is happy. Besides, who'd convict her? We've all wanted to do it at one time or another."