2004-11-10 - 1:16 p.m.
In yesterday’s babblings I mentioned my wife’s uncle.
I felt bad about speaking poorly/badly about the man, and a little voice deep inside of me tells me that I really shouldn’t say things like that about people, or be talking about his finances and that money isn’t important and you should keep family business out of your damn blog on the internet. Yada yada yada, yea, yea, yea….
Shut up voice. I’m not listening to you... See? I am now putting my hands over my ears “La-la-la-la-la-la-la! I can’t hear yooooou. La-la-la-la-la-la.”
Ok.
Let me once again state for the record: My wife’s uncle is a real son-of-a-bitch. He’s the most self centered, egotistical, rude, mean, bastard I have ever met.
Given that, he’s also filthy fucking rich, (at least by my ever changing standards). Cue your Austin Powers- Dr Evil voice and say with me: “$20 miiiiiiillion dollars.”
Call me odd. Call me a pervert, but I get an erection thinking about large sums of money like that. Yes, I can be very shallow. I’ve been poor. I don’t like it. I would not be offended if he was to remember me in his will. Not in the least.
My lovely wife says she doesn’t care about his money.
My lovely wife claims since her family is small and spread out it’s important to her to keep the family together.
My lovely wife is horrible liar.
So in the name of family (and 20 million dollars….god, I love typing that…20 million dollars….ahhhhh), I put up with the evil overlord uncle. When he comes to New England to visit, we let him stay with us. It’s quite the adventure.
This man cannot do anything for himself.
It’s a constant barrage of requests, always thinly disguised as a question. It’s not uncommon to be sitting around the kitchen and from the guest room hear:
“Helloooooo. Heloooooooooooooo. Where do you keep your ice?” as Scrooge McDucky-Uncle holds up an empty scotch glass.
Oh, sure we’ve TRIED to explain to him that we keep our ice in the freezer. But he doesn’t get it. It doesn’t seem to take, because in another 20 minutes we hear:
“Helloooooo. Helloooooooooooo.Where do you keep your ice? Was that all the ice you had? My glass is empty”
Or
“Helloooooo. Helloooooooooooo. Is this all the cognac you have? Hellooooooooo.”
And so it goes all day and night, all night and all day.
Except for one time, it was about 1:30 in the night, and if I remember correctly I was pleasuring my wife for, oh, like the 9th time in a row, when we hear from the stairwell:
“Helloooooo. Helloooooooooooo”
“What the hell now?” I mumble to myself as my wife, deep in the throes of ecstasy begs me not to leave her.
“Helloooooo. Helloooooooooooo. Can someone please come here? Helloooooo”
So, like a butt kissing nephew I am, I get up to find out what the crisis is.
Standing in the bathroom is Uncle McScrooge. He looks up at me and opens his bathrobe, exposing himself and all his glory.
Gak! I feel a little bit of vomit come up in my throat as this 75 year old man thrusts his groin out in my general direction.
“What do you make of this?”
WTF?
“Well, It’s nice, but really not my kind of thing.” I sheepishly respond.
I muse to myself just how much money would it take for me to prostitute myself…
“No you putz! This!” He lifts his 75 year old nut sack up and I see blood dripping from his scrotum.
Ahem. Let’s all stop for a moment and try to imagine what has been seared into my brain.
It’s 1:30 in the morning and a 75 year old, naked Jewish man, with the worse case of man boobs I’ve ever seen, is standing inches away from me holding his bloody ball sack.
I wish they sold some kind of mental bleach that would scrub that image from my mind.
Gak. Gak. Gak.
There is also no fucking way that I am going to get into all the details of that night. I will take what happened in the bathroom with me to the grave. But I will say we eventually discovered the problem was only a case of severe dry skin and he must have scratched himself a bit too hard.
However, isn’t there some law that says if you have to diagnose and old man with bloody-itchy-ball-itis, said old man must include you in his will?
There damn well better be.
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