Today this blog is twelve. To celebrate I went out to the park to celebrate... And put on a pair of glasses... And carried an Easter basket... And de-aged twenty years...
(Shadow is trying to quietly creep away.)
"Why would anyone care about that?" Mom asked.
"About my blog being twelve? Then why is it on all the nightly news programs?"
Mom grabbed up her remote, but it flew out from her fingers like a wet bar of soap and landed in Bailey's dog dish.
"BAILEY!"
"Now the remote is getting all cold and eaten."
While Mom gently beat Bailey about the face, Chris came to see the old bag. We started talking about important issues of the day like Chris and Cinira's upcoming trip to Brazil when Mom interrupted with an urgent, breathless question:
"Did you get a birthday card for Liam?"
"What?"
"That was really random, Mom. But, yes, I'm sure Chris has put that at the top of his list of things to do. Pack, get plane tickets, hotel room reservation... BUT FIRST AND FOREMOST PICK UP BIRTHDAY CARD FOR NEPHEW. And Liam will no doubt be obsessively checking his mailbox every hour to see if his uncle sent him a Snoopy card for his twenty-second birthday."
"I was just asking," Mom said glumly.
"Now what is Bailey..."
"BAILEY! Oh, Greg, stop her. She's got the poop spoon in her mouth again."
"At least it's not the diarrhea knife!"
"This is so disgusting," Chris said.
"This puts me in mind of the Gonzales branch where we have to listen to the homeless fart all day. See, we have to keep the restroom doors open for security reasons. I was at the desk with twenty-year-old Zoe, she of the ripped jeans and belly shirts and shining professionalism, and we were forced to listen to a veritable symphony of groaning of the damned from the toilets. Angry, relentless farting. At one point, Zoe put her head down on the desk. Thank God the library is blissfully quiet, which gives us the opportunity to focus on every nuance of a man's anus. Isn't that what the Founding Fathers wanted? From pert farts like a rap on a bongo, to throaty baritone anal belches, all followed by groans and sighs. Ha ha."
"I think that's my cue to leave," Chris said.
"Oh! Are you leaving?" Mom said. "I have more pictures to share. Please don't go yet. Here's one of Greg skipping with an Easter basket doing his impression of Andrew Tate who I've never heard of."
"Am I in any of these?" Chris said.
"Yes, this one."
"That's Greg and Mark, Mom."
"Ahem. Only the handsome brothers were photographed in those days."
(Meanwhile, cans of dog and cat food were being assiduously
cared for in the mechanical dishwasher, as was the style at the time.)
"Well, how about this one of you and Chris?"
"That's another one of Greg and Mark. The important brothers. Also handsome. Wait, who's talking?"
"Are you sure?" Mom squinted, lifted her glasses and set them down again on her nose. "That goofy smile looks like yours, Chris."
(Glib parenthetical comment about tube socks.)
"That's Mark, Mom."
"You could tell I was a thinker even back then."
"Oh, here's one of you acting goofy on the Empire State Building."
"Again, not me. That's Greg."
(Question: What book am I juggling comically?
Hint: Mason and Dixon by T. Pynchon. No, too easy. By Thomas P.)
"Wait. Are those the Twin Towers in the background? What depraved monster took such a photo??"
All eyes turn to Amy X. She looks up from her phone. "What? What's happening?!"
Chris peered more closely at the photo. "I don't see Hakeem Olujuwon and Tacko Fall in the background. Are they back in there?"
The door rang. Dinner had arrived. Mom shouted with joy. She was much happier with this than seeing her two sons can you blame her.
"Bailey! Come here, my glacious! Let me put the KFC bib on you! Time for dinner...!"
"Okay, if Mom takes up a spoon or a knife, I'm... Oh, dear God. Run!!"
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