Note to Reader: You will notice on the words with a soft g I have boldfaced the first letter g. This is your cue to pronounce it as a hard g for the purposes of the passage. For instance, gerbil instead of being pronounced 'jerbil' will be pronounced as 'ga-jerbil' and gym instead of being pronounced 'jim' will be pronounced 'ga-jim'. If I didn't boldface the soft g as a cue to 'harden' it throughout the passage it's only natural to read it the way we always do and out of habit leave it soft. I believe by pronouncing it as a hard g in all the boldfaced words the passage will flow better, sound more g-ish (if that's an adjective!), and be funnier. I also boldfaced the handful of words with the silent g that start with gn. For instance gnawing instead of being pronounced 'nawing' will be pronounced 'ga-nawing'. I boldfaced as well the even fewer words with the French sounding g. For instance gendarme instead of being pronounced 'zhendarme' will be pronouned 'ga-zhendarme'. The gnomes appeared frequently enough in the story that I only bothered boldfacing that word the first time. So enjoy!



Greetings! I'm Gary Glanville from Glendale, CA., author of this gripping tale. Although at times this may seem a ghastly gorefest that will gross you out, it may be generalizing if you simply group it in the horror genre.


High in the San Gabriel Mountains in golden California rose the godforsaken, gloomy, gothic castle called Greystoke. Now at first I thought the grisly goings-on associated with the evil place were so much gossip from the grapevine seeing how gossipmongers always run things through the rumor gristmill like gabbling geese. However, the grim fact was that any uninvited guest who had the gall to go near the grounds to get a glimpse over the years had usually suffered a gruesome gory death involving grievous bodily harm.

A grassroots campaign created a groundswell of public opinion galvanizing the citizenry far and wide- everyone from lowly guttersnipes to landed gentry- grousing and demanding that the governor stop goldbricking on the job and greenlight a raid. With fear escalating geometrically every day, he was game for action so held a forum where he pounded his gavel and vowed to get to the bottom of it with utmost gravitas.

When I read in the local gazette that his government was grappling with this issue, a 100 gigawatt lightbulb lit up over my noggin. I called the guv and told him he could end the gridlock over who should be going in there (police, military, etc.) and cut this Gordian knot by sending me Gary Glanville- champion ghostbuster, master gumshoe, and gunslinger supreme- into Greystoke and golly gee wuddyaknow...I got the go-ahead!


Now even as a happy giggling youngster, when I wasn't gamboling gaily in the grass I preferred reading the saga of St. George the dragonslayer to Mother Goose and Goldilocks. I dreamt of dispelling ghosts, putting genies back in their bottles, and slaying ghouls among other things. Growing up in Glendale (Hey, a gerund phrase for you grammarians!), I had my father for a guru who recognizing I wasn't really in goose step with everyone else, gently nurtured me by imparting a goodly amount of advice thus providing important grounding with his guideposts to live by:

  • "If you want to be a gravity-defying galactic traveler like John Glenn or Yuri Gagarin, you mustn't eat gassy food like garbanzo beans or guzzle ginger ale prior to donning your G-suit, and it goes without saying but watch out for little green men with gamma ray guns.
  • Now don't hold a grudge against me here but since you can't find a consistent groove on the Gibson guitar or even the glockenspiel, you gotta believe me when I tell you to give up music and your grandiose illusions of groovy groupies galore at your gigs.
  • And I gauged your athleticism at the gymnasium and I don't see you as a gymnast, goaltender, or Harlem Globetrotter. At baseball you throw too many gopher balls for grand slams to be the next Gaylord Perry or Dwight Gooden and on the gridiron you're no Red Grange or Roman Gabriel."
  • When I grumbled over his goalkeeper evaluation from the gym, he replied... "Since the goal of a good goalie is to prevent the puck from getting through the goalposts, you won't be like hockey greats Ed Giacomin, Gilles Gilbert, Gerry Cheevers, Glen Wakely, or Grant Fuhr especially with guys emulating Gordie Howe and Wayne Gretzky making you look god-awful.
  • That ganja your goony bird friends want you to try is a gateway drug from which you'll graduate to stuff that'll make you a total goofus with a perpetually glazed, glassy-eyed look who'll wind up in a gutter in the ghetto so please try Wrigley's chewing gum instead.
  • You've pretty much run the gamut trying to make the grade as a tradesman since:
    • As a gaffer on the set of Gandhi you didn't properly ground your wires and practically electrocuted Sir John Gielgud.
    • Though grampa was an old gashouser, as a gasman for the gasworks your gaskets were never gastight.
    • Then as a glazier you would cut up all the glass the wrong size and if the grout wasn't enough to fill the gaps at the jobsites, they had to go back to the glassmaker at the glassworks and start again.
  • You should stop frequenting that gin joint where you get all goggle-eyed and gaga ogling at the go-go dancers who excite the gentlemen with their gyrations and gorgeous gams and glistening skin and glittery, glitzy glam getups. You gesticulate giddily for them to approach so they gravitate to your table and readily shed their G-strings like so much giftwrapping to goad you into gullibly giving them overly generous gratuities. Besides, that place is run by gangsters and their goombahs straight out of the Godfather who'll send someone from their rogue's gallery of big grunting galoots to plug you with a gat or garrote you (Gadzooks! I gag even now and feel it in my epiglottis) if you give them any guff. And by the way, where are all the gangbusting G-men to send these goons to the gallows then hang 'em from gibbets anyway?
  • And those girlie magazines like Bob Guccione's Hustler with the glossy photos should all go to the garbageman. If you're so interested in the opposite gender you should get serious, grow up, and put your nose to the grindstone to become a gynecologist for Pete's sake! I'd surely guarantee paying for it through grad school.
  • Now I know you goof on me for being a geologist and say I have rocks in my head for studying gravel, granite, gypsum, and all the stuff in the ground while getting dirty like a gravedigger, but since it's a given with your IQ that you're gifted too (it must be in your genes to be a genius, heh!) maybe you should consider being a chess grandmaster as well as a backgammon and gin rummy champion since your gambits at the gaming table outwit everyone and always win you serious greenbacks.
  • Finally, if the skies are gray or the ground is wet always wear your galoshes. And if someone is gauche enough to sneeze and get their goopy guck all over you, remain polite and say gesundheit but then reach for the germicide.


Anyhow, the idea that had been gestating for so long ultimately germinated and I decided to follow my gut instinct and found gainful employment on my own as this gladiator vs. evil spirits and monsters. I achieved glory doing good all over the globe anywhere between our geomagnetic poles they needed me...not only in remote Greenland but in Africa in Gabon, Gambia, and Ghana, and in far-flung islands like Guam and Grenada, and then in Guatamala where the gauchos still sing of the crazy gringo from Glendale.


This haunted house was quite the glasshouse issue for the governor since with this increased scrutiny he now had to run the gauntlet as past indiscretions involving gerrymandering and graft came to light. Though he believed in glasnost like Gorbachev, he nevertheless knew he had to get the media gadflies off of him to save his governorship. So with great gusto he gushingly gloated he'd found Gary Glanville who with godlike gallantry would yell 'Giddyup!' and go galloping into Greystoke. Understanding my job was not gratis, he said I was to be given 100 grand for my attempt. Now while it was true I was no gangly, gawky, geeky goofball so was indeed gallant as he said, my only horse was a gaunt, grizzled, gimp gelding so I drove a Gran Torino.


I gasped at what I gleaned from the file provided me:

  1. Many years ago a gadabout goatherd was gallivanting about Greystoke when what appeared before him...mere glowworms or gastropods?...but no!...gigantic geckos and Gila monsters fleet as greyhounds. He ran faster than Flash Gordon or Speedy Gonzales and escaped to a nearby grotto, but his flock, not as fast as gazelles but more like Galapagos giant tortoises unfortunately, gave them a year's supply of goat's cheese and milk.
  2. A band of gypsies gadding about bumped into the forbidding Greystoke yet decided to gamble and take a gander inside only to be grabbed by some big green goblins. Grimacing in pain and groping to get free, a gypsy woman queried, "You ain't gonna eat us grown humans like we're mere grub are you?" whereupon a goblin replied, "Not only are you grammatically incorrect but all you annoying gnats are gonzo!" The intruders were added guessed it...Hungarian goulash and gluttonously gulped down.
  3. Since it was rumored Greystoke was full of gleaming gold, garnet gemstones, as well as pile$ of guilder$, a Spanish galleon by way of Mexico and full of pirates all geared up to seek treasure sailed into U.S. waters notwithstanding any geopolitical implications. They dreamt of running up the gangplank loading the ship to the gunwales with genuine booty and sailing back to their gemologist for his best guesstimate. They quietly broke through some grating outside the mansion, crawled up a guideway, and knocked out some grillwork at the other end to get inside. Yet their intrusion angered some grouchy, grumpy gremlins who with the same graphic and gratuitous violence you saw in the grody to the max Gremlins I and II starring Zach Gilligan, started gleefully grinning then gobbled 'em up. You see, the pirates ended up in the guacamole rather then back in Guadalajara.
  4. A gang of grungy greasers just for a gag started spraying graffiti on the gatehouse which wasn't always guarded. This time a gargantuan golem (C'mon gentiles, remember the giant clay figure from Jewish legend?) espied the gagsters and came galumphing over. Sensing something glowering over them, the grubby greaseballs turned around and then gaped in horror as they were squashed like mere grasshoppers.
  5. Two college professors, both geoscientists from Great Britain, one a geochemist-Sir Galbraith of Glastonbury- and the other a geophysicist-Sir Garfield of Gloucester-were avid hunters of wild game generally going into the San Gabriels for grebe and grouse since grizzly bears were scarce (proving Greystoke should've employed gamekeepers). When Galbraith admitted his belief there was grave danger within that godless gunmetal grey deathtrap Greystoke, Garfield would gainsay him as being full of gibberish and gobbledygook (the goofiest word in any glossary). With much grandiloquence he guffawed labeling his colleague as a victim of groupthink subject to groundless belief in fantasy. Tired of Garfield's gibes, Galbraith threw down the gauntlet and exclaimed, "We'll be arguing about this till we're graybeard geezers. Before we're geriatrics with such bad glaucoma even our glasses won't help us see much, let's go there but gingerly without getting too close."
  6. So they traversed the varied geography following a hiking trail through gulches, glens, gullies, steep gradient hills, and glades (luckily no gators) to a narrow gorge. Unfortunately, a gryphon (griffin) perched at Greystoke sensed them and flew over. Now if gulls give you goose pimples then what about this genetic mutation of a lion and hawk seemingly grafted together! Going for the kill, the beast gouged them so badly their blood was gushing up like geysers by the gallons then filled his gizzard with them while in a state of gustatorial bliss. I guess these two genteel gents with the well-groomed goatees should've stayed in their gabardine suits giving boring lectures and applying for grants.

  7. One fateful day a gaggle of youngsters donned their racing goggles, filled their go-carts with gasoline, gunned their engines, cranked up their gearshifts, and were off! As they were passing by Greystoke, they just had to gawk at a glamorous goddess waiting by the gateposts who genially offered them goodies inside. Greenhorns in the game of life, ignorant of the Hansel and Gretel story by the Brothers Grimm, these mere guppies took it for granted that all grown-ups were goodhearted, and they were too guileless to glom onto her gamesmanship.
  8. With great gaiety they gorged on gobstoppers, gumdrops, gumballs, goobers, and gingerbread men while glugging down Gatorade and grape Ne-hi. They seemed to prefer her gooey high glucose treats to her groundnuts, granola bars, and graham crackers. Then after serving them many bowls of fattening gelatin, she transformed into a goliath-sized gorgon-like creature fom Greek mythology with snakes (and not garden-variety garter snakes!) for hair. This giantess yelled, 'Gotcha!' at the understandably gobsmacked kids, pickled them, and popped 'em down her new meaning to the term baby gherkins.

  9. A sportsman riding on a glider ran into some gusty winds that quickly became gale-force and too powerful for his limited gyroscopic instruments sending him crashing through the garret at Greystoke. Using her beautiful guise again, the woman greeted him warmly not even griping about the damage and played the gracious hostess, begging him to get settled in the guestroom since the guesthouse wasn't ready.
  10. Still too groggy from the crash, he hadn't detected the sinister glint in her eyes, a dead giveaway that maybe he should Git! She quickly gorgon-ized again and Grrrrr!...gnashing her teeth, flashed her gums at him whereupon still a bit out of his gourd he quipped, "Hey grandma, a gerondontist could help your gingivitis and some good gargle would eliminate that garlicky breath." She growled, "Hey wiseguy, I'm going to gut you like a birdie to make giblets for my gravy stock!" He responded, "Gawd! Your gerontologist would agree that will give you gout," but alas, he did wind up a goner in a globby brown mass poured over her turkey gobbler.

  11. Lastly, it was rumored the famous Sir Gawain who once fought the Green Knight came across Greystoke castle during his quest to find the Holy Grail before Lancelot, lover of Guinevere, and Galahad. When the gorgon came to him as a pretty girl ready to provide gratification, well Gosh!...he didn't want to be girt in armor and greaves anymore! While he was busy shedding his garments, she gorgon-ized yet again and grasped his sword, gilt-edged by a goldsmith, and slashed at him almost gelding his genitals with the glancing blow. With gumption and grit and the fieriness of a gamecock he made some gutsy moves and though suffering a few gashes, regained his sword. She then banged a gong summoning some gnomes who aggravated him by kicking him in the groin slowing his gait. He gradually backed his way out of a window onto the gables of the gambrel roof from where he jumped down to a grassy area, hijacked a gondola, and rowed off for a clean getaway.


I had to work fast since meanwhile an old general was lining up a whole garrison of grunts, some gunnery sergeants, as well as guardsmen and teaching them all guerilla tactics. He had even procured some gunships- helicoptors fitted with guns to use against ground targets. He had helped topple generalissimos, had once blown up a guardhouse full of German Gestapo, and helped hunt down their Nazi leaders like Goebbels and Goerring who were guilty of genocide. But overall he was considered too gung ho over his drastic gunboat diplomacy so most preferred to stay within safer guidelines and not have the Greystoke mission under his governance but under mine.


Well no geoprofiling or guesswork was necessary since everyone knew where the bad guys were. As I was crossing a graveyard full of Greystoke family gravestones, I looked up and noticed many grotesque gargoyles coming to life and flying off the roof gutters to kill me. I whipped out my Gatling gun from my gunnysack and with rapid gunfire of like a gazillion gunshots wiped 'em out without needing a gurney or even shedding a single globule of blood. (Maybe my guardian angel or my fairy godmother was logging overtime.)

When I got to the front door there was the gorgon woman who stated, "I divined from my geomancy that a guy named Gary Glanville was coming. I'm impressed with your gunplay and I got goose bumps watching your gem of a performance vs. my gatekeepers." I replied, "Well I'll gloss over the fact I know you caused that but I'll be grateful if there are no more gaudy displays of gorgonian gimmickry." Then I asked, "Why are you not in the guise of Greta Garbo or Greer Garson or some graceful geisha girl or something as usual?" She answered, "Give me a minute to get gussied up and I'll explain why now I'm just Gertrude Greystoke the gorgon you gigolo you. While I'm gone, admire the greenery area before the gloaming turns to darkness." She summoned the gnomes, gruff little fellows who made strange garbled sounds and came running out like groundhogs and who served as her groundskeepers and genuflecting, groveling gofers. I'm not sure if they are of the genus human but I bet the geneticists at the Human Genome Project who know genotypes could tell us. Anyhow, they escorted me to a flower garden of fragrant goldenrods, gardenias, gladiolas, and geraniums where I waited while the goldfinches chirped.


When she returned I knew a girdle had obviously decreased her girth since before she had reminded me of this guernsey cow that used to wander over from a nearby granger's granary to my granduncle's grasslands to graze. Anyway, over that she wore a garish, gauzy, gossamer gown, a major fashion gaffe (even Givenchy couldn't have helped). A simple gingham dress would've sufficed, but she was so giddy and positively glowing with excitement I didn't want to be a grinch and make her glum so I glibly told her she looked great. She had desperately worked globs of gel into her hair (er, snakes) and applied much glycerine soap to her gnarled hands and gobs of greasepaint to her face as makeup.


Remembering my question, she offered, "I lived a gilded youth as a normal little girl during the glory days of Greystoke Mansion in all its grandeur. Lord Greystoke my grandfather, a very stern grandparent, brought in my grandaunt Gwynneth (my grandmother's sister) instructing, "Be Gertrude's governess. Reign in the young gamine and teach her some gentility." Now she was one experienced godparent with very many godchildren including not only my dad himself as a godson but me as well as a goddaughter!" Yet when she gave me bad grades and suggested I be grounded till they improved and that I start gestalt therapy too, I threw her in our huge fishtank where she was gored repeatedly by gar-like needlefish and devoured by my great white shark who filled himself to the gills but not before she uttered a wild guttural curse in a gravelly voice turning me, her guinea pig, into a part-time gorgon.

Now one day I made a gala feast and invited all the monsters of Greystoke...the gigantic geckos and Gila monsters, the green goblins, the grouchy, grumpy gremlins, the gargantuan golem, and that genetic mutation the gryphon (griffin). I pulled out my finest giftware to serve this gourmet meal featuring the best victuals and grog the greengrocer had to offer. There was ground sirloin steak with zero gristle hot off the grill with au gratin potatoes and gumbo soup on the side along with many garnishes. I even had Greek gyros and grinders along with Gouda cheese balls for appetizers. I offered a choice of guava or grapefruit juice from the finest groves but also took out my best glassware, my long stem goblets, and offered grenadine cocktails and lime gimlets as well. I even fired up the griddle and made griddlecakes much better than the gunky ones at the local greasy spoon and offered gelato for dessert. All in all it was not exactly very gluten-free or low in triglycerides or fat grams, but it was a great meal nonetheless.

Well don't these ingrates start demanding the same gloppy gruel they ate every day. Getting restless, they made a game of who could pass the worst gas with each gigaton blast shaking the girders and probably setting off Geiger counters everywhere. Getting even more out of hand, they started grabbing my gnomes, dressed in garcon's garb for the occasion, and popping 'em in their mouths like grapes and spitting out their bones like grapeseeds. I became so angry I made such an intense glacial gaze at my guests that like a true gorgon I turned 'em into stone! I then ground them into granules and threw it all out in the garbage. Yet as a result of gaining this skill I somehow lost my gift of transmogrification (i.e. turning into that glamorous goddess etc.) and became a full-time gorgon."


Then she suggested, "Let's go to the gazebo for gazpacho and a pint of Guiness!" It was nice under the warm glow of the gaslights especially with the jazz grooves of Dizzy Gillespie spinning on her old gramophone. Here she expressed regeret that her Greystoke genealogy including her grandpa showed gunsmiths who were gunrunners. In fact, during the Civil War the Greystokes had greedily built a fortune selling gunpowder and guns to both sides...Ulysses S. Grant's Blue and R.E. Lee's graybacks. Their extensive portfolio now included a grubstake in a goldfield in Guyana, big stakes in Goldman Sachs and Getty Oil, and much more. Feeling guilt-ridden, she had gladly willed the Greystoke riches to the Girl Scouts, Greenpeace, and those monks who do the Gregorian chants.

When it got dark we went back into Greystoke to a grand galleria styled dining hall where a gnome from Guangzhou brought out some General Gao chicken with subgum chow mein and eggrolls and tea (Earl Grey upon request). Then either God was getting even with me for forgetting to say grace or too much monosodium glutamate had been added, but I became gravely ill with gastric distress.

Now Gertie's dad never got along with her granddad and instead devoted his life to compiling much Gnostic know-how into a guidebook, actually a massive grimoire, which she quickly consulted for a potion which tasted of a goodish amount of ginseng, gingko, and gingerroot, to cure me. She said she once had a grueling gastrointestinal virus and another time a goiter when she had an enlarged thyroid gland but healed herself as well. I expressed my deep gratitude and we continued our gabfest...


When she begged, "What laid the groundwork for your growth, Gary?" I mentioned all my dad's advice graven in my mind and some old jobs that were such a grind (They made gallstones in your gallbladder and even gonnorhea and gangrene look fun) that I finally got the guts to try my odd profession...

  • At the zoo I fed the giraffes, gibbons, gnus, and the gorillas too, but when they told me...Ay Gevalt! Gimme a break!...that I had to clean up the poop and guano as well, I said I didn't mind doing that for my pet grimalkin and gerbils, but I wasn't going to get gamy, grimy, and germy for them so I gave them my notice.
  • When I was a greenskeeper at the golf course a gopher was menacing me so I threw some grenades down his hole, but the resulting groundbursts caused a pole to sway snapping its guywires sending the pole crashing to the ground where a golf cart swerved to avoid it but flipped over a guardrail and fell into a beautiful geodesic dome styled greenhouse breaking every pane of glass.
  • Being a gregarious sort, I started hawking various gewgaws and gizmos and gadgetry for this sales organization. They represented goods like gooseneck lamps, grappling hooks, grommets, and gussets. But the office was like a military guardroom where they'd detain and grill you over the slightest downward gradation of even one grid on your sales graph. I grew frightened that it was off to the guillotine or life as a galley slave or off to the gulag if I didn't try shady sales gimmicks like some grifter to improve their gross profits. It was so much like that Glengarry Glenn Ross movie that my get-up-and-go got up and went.


She was still in a garrulous mood and I was still quite gabby myself so we continued:

We both preferred Gunsmoke to Bonanza, no disrespect to Lorne Greene whose later Battlestar Gallactica had it all over Gil Gerard's Buck Rogers. We both loved James Garner in Grand Prix and thought the Great One Jackie Gleason proved he was more than just a gagman in the drama Gigot. We were sure Allen Ginsburg's groundbreaking beat poetry greatly influenced the Greenwich Village crowd, and as far as Italian stargazer Galileo was concerned, we felt the Church gave him far too much grief for going against the grain with his geocentric model with that house arrest where he wasn't allowed to go to the grocery store for his gnoccis and Gorgonzolla cheese. Staying germane to science for a while we agreed that the geothermal heat system using simple groundwater to generate heat installed at Greystoke was the greatest invention since Gutenburg's press and the cotton gin. We both liked Glen Campbell's glorious Galveston but considered the bubblegum pop confections of Bobby Goldsboro and Andy Gibb real groaners. We had no question that the gutbucket soul of Al Green (the pre-grits incident stuff) was greater than his later gospel material though it did inspire my granny to glossolalia (gift of tongues) in Gaelic though she was from Glasgow not Galway! and we'd take Art Garfunkel over gangsta rap any day.

I admired the Gainsboroughs, Gaugins, Goyas, and Van Goghs that graced the walls. After she told me she'd willed them to the Guggenheim and Gardner museums, I told her they still couldn't compare to the graphite pencil portraits of my grammy and gramps I had drawn after mastering John Gnagy art lessons. Gertrude said she didn't get around much but dreamt of Gay Paree, wherefore I mentioned I'd been to Grenoble where a gendarme wanted to arrest me for my gallingly bad Gallic when I got lost and asked for his guidance.


Next, with a longing glance she said I was a godsend, a cross between Clark Gable and Cary Grant, and started making goo-goo eyes at me. After gliding over to my chair, she made more amorous gestures. She grazed my leg, caressed me with gentleness, then goosed my gluteus maximus. She was getting downright goofy when she suggested we let our gonads release gametes and produce a zygote (get busy if you get the gist!). She mused, "Gary, we'll have a happy gurgling baby who I can put in Huggies and who may give us grandkids later! But first you must be my groom with the gnomes as groomsmen and never leave Greystoke." You didn't need a galvanic skin response to see I was gripped with dread and felt trapped like a pet goldfish. I mentioned the generation gap between us was too wide a gulf since she was probably as old as the book of Genesis.

I told her to let me go back to the governor and advise him to station the National Guard around Greystoke to simply keep the general population separated from her, a dangerous gorgon, but it wasn't good enough. She pressed a button slamming down grilles on all the windows and locking all gates and doors. She started an icy glare that I knew would turn me to stone (!) like those banquet-goers.

I pulled a long gun from my goatskin pouch and warned her, "I'm no goody two-shoes but a pro gunman not at all gunshy, but I don't want to send you to your grave in a one-sided gunfight. You see I have this gunstock firmly against my shoulder holding you at gunpoint clearly in my gunsights so hit the button and let me go!" But Gertie kept her dangerous eyes glued to me so I shot her and as she fell to the ground and grabbled about she cried with her last glimmer of life, "Oh my goodness Gary...Forgive me...Goodbye!"


They threw parades for Gary Glanville the gorgon slayer where I garnered accolades and even if I pleaded gangway, people would storm the guiderails to wreathe garlands around my neck. The glitterati glamorized me as godly in a bewildering googolplex of articles. There was a glut of coverage (if you google me there's like a gazillion entries now) as a galaxy of reporters grated on my nerves after a while swarming over me like greenflies, but hey, I didn't get gypped and got my 100 gees so I now have a Lamborghini Gallado with gullwing doors in my garage. The governor even named a greenway somewhere in the greenbelt after me! Gallup polls showed I should perhaps enter the gubernatorial race and be knighted like Bob Geldof. On TV I was interviewed by the likes of Bryant Gumbel, Kathy Lee Gifford, and Leza Gibbons who all gave me nice giftbags in the greenroom.

George Steinbrenner invited me to Gotham City and treated me like I was Yankee great Lou Gehrig. At the stadium he threw me a glove and let me take grounders with Graig Nettles coaching me. At the bat it was mostly groundouts but I did shoot one into the grandstand like a guided missile! On the mound I gathered all my strength and like Greg Gagne in his prime threw a few gassers right by Graig!

When Bill Gates ran into a glitch on his most recent generation of generic software, who better than me Gary Glanville to restore goodwill while he did the gruntwork and made it more goofproof, though I couldn't tell you what a gigbyte is and computer graphics are so much hieroglyphics to me.

I was considering going to a writer's guild for a ghostwriter- maybe John Grisham- to write the granddaddy of all epics, but there was a gnawing guilt inside me that the killing of Gertie was just a glorified gangland style hit. So I've decided as a form of giveback to write the book myself. I wish to correct the glaring misconception that she was worse than Genghis Khan and show that though she was no Lady Godiva, she's gotten a bit of a bad rap and there was still a lot of good in this misunderstood girl who genuinely wanted to be more than my girlfriend.


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