The Butcher Needs Some Alone Time

The whole damn family is here.  The amount of chaos that comes…

Okay, you have to imagine our living room.  It’s in a crappy half a box at the end of a sunny dead end and so the front room of our place is as small as you might imagine.  And last night, in it, my mom was asleep in the chair, the nephews and I were playing with a ball.  Mrs. Wigglebottom was milling about, looking for some place to hide where she could still keep an eye on all the action.  Manny was playing on the computer and Dad and the recalcitrant brother were doing some guitar picking.  Dad was teaching the recalcitrant brother "The House of the Rising Sun," because, of course, nothing brings fathers and sons together like figuring out chord progressions to a song about a New Orleans brothel.

When the Butcher got home from work, he just looked like he was about ready to drop.  I was upstairs in the bathroom and he came upstairs

[…]

We all went to breakfast, to the Noshville in Green Hills, which I just love, and my oldest nephew turns to me and asks, "So, why aren’t you married?  Why don’t you have kids?"

I wonder if Paw Paw put him up to that.

They left before the giant back hair comparison started.  An unfortunate side effect of the giant back hair comparison is that it led to a discussion of what’s happened to all of the recalcitrant brother’s body hair.  He trims it "For the ladies."

Ladies, have you seen the man’s ass?  He looks like some kind of fucking satyr.  If the fact that he has a giant bush in the back of his shorts doesn’t bother you, a little wisp of chest hair really shouldn’t be a problem.

Manny and I fought all afternoon.  I threw a spoon at him.  He threw a box of crackers at me.  Etc. Etc.

I think I have the Butcher talked into wearing his awesome leisure suit tonight.  I’m not sure what I’m going to wear.

Um… yeah… I’m tired and frazzled and sympathize with the Butcher, who told me last night that he’s ready to be alone.

God, yes.  It’s good to see you, now go home.

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