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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

9/29/2003

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
Sept. 28, 2003: Went to my father’s house in Tarpon Springs on Saturday to celebrate his 60th birthday. My father’s family is Irish Catholic, so they multiply faster than chlamydia germs on the toilet seats at Leonardo’s Pizza… I have many, many uncles, aunts and cousins. So many, in fact, that I quit keeping track of ‘em when I was 11 or so and my grandparents decided that the 12 kids they had weren’t enough and adopted a 9-year-old Puerto Rican who, strangely enough, then became my uncle Joaquin. (I swear I’m not making that up.)

Anyway, a small delegation from the Celtic mob came down from their homeland in East Bleak Cold Nowhere, New York to ostensibly help celebrate while eating and drinking everything organic in their path like a horde of leprechaun locusts. A handful of my father and stepmother’s degenerate friends were there as well, making Viagra jokes at my dad (who wore nothing but swim trunks the entire weekend, except for when he went to church to beg the Pope to forgive all the stuff he was doing the rest of the time) and talking about how the Jews control the media.

I tried to avoid conversation with these barbarians by keeping my mouth full, which wasn’t hard considering the spread included stromboli, Swedish meatballs, baklava, lasagna, chicken wings, strawberry cheesecake, bbq beef sandwiches, birthday cake, cookies, the flesh of the innocent, chocolate baklava, Mexican meat-and-cheese dip and a mind-boggling variety of alcoholic beverages. Most of the exchanges that slipped through this artery-clogging barrier were along these lines:

Uncle Donald: “Your dad said you’ve been having sinus problems.”

Me: “Yup.”

Uncle Donald: “You know what’s good for that? Poontang! Heh heh heh! Poontang!”

At one point I bit into a piece of that chocolate baklava and all the insulin in my body instantly squirted out of my pores. (It was in the yard, so I didn’t get yelled at for ruining the furniture.)

Earlier, I had been sent to fetch the poisonous baklava from a local Greek bakery. I stood there at the counter for fifteen minutes, listening to very loud techno music and getting shoved by tourists while four grumpy 57-year-old Greek women with facial hair like Blackjack Mulligan yammered at each other in their foreign jibber-jabber, which sounds like a cross between a stick getting stuck in the spokes of your bike and angry, stupid monkeys.

This was just after:

1. My truck refused to start, causing me to miss the Gators rallying from an 18-point deficit to beat Kentucky in the last quarter while we got a new battery (the thought of being stuck there an extra day had made an actual black storm cloud form above my head, startling area meteorologists).

2. A dog tried to bite me as I helped my dad’s female mail carrier bring a package up to a neighbor’s house. (Dad: “He won’t bite.” Her: “I think he doesn’t like my uniform.” Uncle Donald: “Then why don’t you take it off? Heh heh heh! Take the uniform off! Heh heh heh!”)

Later that night, after most of the rabble had either passed out or driven off to commit DUI manslaughter, I tried to sleep on a couch designed by First Grand Inquisitor Torquemada. I estimate its dimensions to be about 3’x1’ and believe a mixture of rocks, pus and shredded copies of Mein Kampf was used for its padding. It was next to a huge, looming grandfather clock; a sentry designed to chime a rotten note every fifteen fucking minutes as well as play a jaunty, 59-minute tune every hour, on the hour. I considered shitting in its various gears and workings and throwing it into the bayou behind the house, but found myself too weak to do so, due to the gallons of booze my family had forced me to drink, plus low self-esteem.

The next morning I unfolded myself from the hated couch, which had sensed my presence during the night, deployed its poison spines and contracted to a size roughly the same as half of a Rubik’s Cube. I thought grabbing my fishing pole and making a few casts along the sea wall behind the house might work out some of the kinks and cheer my mood; unfortunately, one of my uncles was sleeping on the back deck sans clothing or coverings of any kind. I got a good, early-morning look at his wrinkly, hairy balls, spectacularly lit by rays of the rising sun, and decided to forego fishing and instead go inside and contemplate biting down on the cyanide capsule hidden in my tooth. I warned my aunt Laurie not to go out there where Uncle Nature Boy was displaying his wares, and she replied in a black croak coarsened by 300 daily cigarettes: “Who gives a shit? He ain’t got barely nuthin’ to see! Heh heh heh.”

Later, after the other 17 members of the family arose and forced Uncle Wrinkly Naked Hairy Balls to put on some damn clothes, I sat at the kitchen table with my beloved grandma, who started lamenting about the most screwed-up of my 400 northern cousins, a young man “covered in tattoos who hops from job to job every six months.” Of course, this description fits me perfectly too.

I managed to escape soon after, when everyone was distracted by the ritual worship of the tyrannical papal dictator that their primitive religion demands. On the drive back to Gainesville I forced my 19-year-old brother to listen to Melt Banana and Floor in retaliation for trying to talk to me about movies that are based on video games. You can read additional commentary on the weekend at the blog he started after seeing mine (which alternates reviews of crap nobody cares about with self-deprecating humor, the thieving little cocksucker):

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