My Family Reunion Trauma
Last month I mentioned that I recently traveled to an extended family reunion, and while the fact that this reunion took place in Florida probably says all that needs to be said about my family, I thought I would share some reflections on the experience with you nonetheless.
First, allow me to provide you with a little insight into how we get down at my family gatherings because these events feature a little something called Kirkland-brand Bourbon.
Now, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular abomination, that is essentially bourbon that has been brewed in a Costco parking lot.
And it does beg the question: Should the company that brings you plastic cutlery, antifungal foot cream and canned roast beef also bring you Kentucky-style bourbon? Probably not. That is sort of the equivalent of a breakfast cereal marketed by Vagisil. Because you can guess what those cereal pieces would be shaped like, and you can guess what they would taste like, too—I’m guessing salmon.
The point is that Kirkland-brand bourbon is how you tell the world that you’ve given up on life and it pairs best with a divorce and all your failed hopes and dreams, which is probably why it is such a hit with my family.
Also, I’m not sure if you have any of these in your family, but I have one particular cousin who was born and raised in Marin county, north of San Francisco, who did not partake of most of the outdoor cookout offerings due to his “gluten allergies.”
Allow me to say this: Gluten allergies are really just the 2016 way of saying that you are a fucking pussy because if you are allergic to something that did not exist more than three years ago, chances are that you’re not allergic, you’re just a narcissistic asshole. And by the way, I know that Whole Foods caters to your whole self-absorbed delusion, but let’s be honest: If you claimed to be allergic to the color yellow Whole Foods would find a way to cater to that, too, if it meant that they could squeeze another dollar out of you.
So if you’re “gluten allergic” why not go ahead and eat that bran muffin because it’s not going to hurt you and it’s not going to kill you, although it would be nice if it could because the world would benefit from a thinning out of a few of your numbers if only to make room for some more of your favorite NBA players’ illegitimate children.
And by the way, do you know who doesn’t have a gluten allergy? The entire continent of Africa. They’re a little too busy digging themselves out of a few hundred years of systematic oppression to be concerned with whether or not their food would make it into the specialty aisle at Whole Foods.
And while we’re on the subject, also not popular in Africa: every last one of your bullshit Tough Mudder races.
Because their version of Tough Mudder involves running across war-torn borders while dodging bullets and landmines to cross turgid shark-infested seas in a Fisher Price inflatable raft, and they do this all so that they can work for below minimum wages at upscale hotels owned by Donald Trump where they can get sexually assaulted by visiting French politicians with flaccid, liver-spotted pricks.
I have yet to see Tough Mudder come up with an obstacle course that even approximates this level of intensity. Unless of course they have an event that involves a private casting session with Bill Cosby, in which case I will have to retract my earlier statement.
The point is that Tough Mudder is little more than an opportunity for high-fiving dude-bros who peaked in high school to find an outlet for their aggressions that is more suitable than dateraping an Applebee’s hostess.
But to return to the matter of my most recent family reunion, this year’s reunion pales in comparison to that of several years past when we “celebrated” in the “town” of Gilroy, California.
For those of you unfamiliar with the town of Gilroy, it is a little out-of-the-way place south of San Jose, California, where literacy is code for liberal conspiracy, which is to say that libraries are not terribly popular there, but you know what is popular? Truck nuts.
Yes, truck nuts, which for those of you unfamiliar with these priceless gems of Americana, perhaps because you posses a triple-digit IQ, these are the plastic testicles that you hang beneath the rear axle of your pickup truck because how else are you supposed to tell the world that you love America and that God hates gay people?
It’s my understanding that they distribute truck nuts at the DMV in Gilroy upon receiving one’s license, and in many cases they constitute a suitable substitute for a GED when applying for a job at the local Waffle House.
But Gilroy’s most notable claim to fame is that it holds the title as the world’s largest per capita consumer of Sunny Delight. And really, who needs fresh squeezed orange juice when you can have the beverage equivalent of taking a nine-year-old to a shooting range? Because after half a sip of Sunny Delight you will feel as though you were unexpectedly shot in the face and even if you don’t necessarily feel that way, taking a 45-caliber round to your left orbital socket is still way better than voluntarily consuming the beverage of choice for people who failed out of the University of Phoenix.
And those are the same people who believe that proper childcare requires cracking the window of your Dodge Avenger while you shop at Walmart which, while also very popular in many parts of Florida, still does not entitle you to treat the backseat of your car like a 7-Eleven microwave and your child like a $3 breakfast burrito.
Speaking of Walmart, my current living and employment situation has brought to my attention that there are too many obese women in tank tops waiting in line at WalMart to buy one-gallon jugs of Hawaiian Punch, which I didn’t even know they still made. But apparently they still do, and I have a suggestion: so long as you’re going to keep producing Hawaiian Punch, rather than fortify it with Vitamin C why not fortify it with depo provera?
Because in case you weren’t aware, one of the check-out lane impulse items at my local Walmart is Simulac. You know, just in case you were too busy stocking up on purchases of Skoal and Little Debbie snack cakes and neglected to recall the starving infant waiting for you back home—this Walmart has got you covered.
And one last thing about my neighborhood WalMart—I did not know that you could get stretch marks on your shoulders, which is one more reason that Walmart should consider discontinuing its sale of tank tops. Because selling tank tops to Walmart shoppers is not unlike giving Jerry Sandusky a gift certificate to Chuckie Cheese—it’s only going to end badly with a lot of trauma and violations of innocence. In this case my innocence, as I haven’t been able to successfully lubricate since witnessing those stretch marks on the shoulders of the customer in front of me.
And those shoulders magically reappeared at my family reunion, where my aunt and her granddaughter mixed up pitchers of white Russians using Simulac, Kahlua, and Popov vodka.
Anyways, I realize that this post about my family reunion has gone a little off track, but I blame the jet lag and hand-fulls of Sudafed and a family that has prepared me for a lifetime of failures and disappointments. My affiliation with BannedCast being only one of many.