If I had to sum up my Thanksgiving in under ten provocative but absolutely true words, I would have to say: guns, fire, scotch, knock-knock jokes, and my uncle’s not-so-hidden stack of Playboys. Wait, is that more than ten? I really should explain that the guns were some sort of PVC-pipe marshmallow shooters carried only by Chase and his brother Not Chase, and that the fire was in one of those back-porch chimenea things, but my uncle’s Playboys? Totally “hidden” under a fishing magazine. Who picked up the lone fishing magazine? That would be me.
In other news, I am sorry to report that we neither saw nor heard the No Shirt Cousins, and although my aunt reported that they’d reformed, and are not only wearing shirts but being elected student body president and writing letters to their congressman, I won’t believe one word of that filthy lie until I see it for myself. She also said that one of them is evidently named Lucas or something. Who knew?
On Friday I drove 200 miles for a visit that lasted less than 3 hours. It was fantastic. I drove 90 miles an hour the whole way, listening to Pulp and applying lip gloss. Tell me you don’t want me. No, make me believe it.