Houston, We Have a Drinking Problem
So Christmas devolved into this weird Norman Mailer kind of enterprise, which found us engaging in an impromptu boxing match with a 15-year-old who had made the near-fatal mistake of making disparaging comments about our stylish coiffure, an infraction that normally wouldn’t rouse us to stylized violence but for some reason the carbuncular little turd wouldn’t let up and so it was down we go into the basement of our sister’s house, where our brother-in-law, a real Buffy McTuffStuff sort of fellow, has a regulation ring set up, complete with turnbuckles. Our opponent, who’s either a neighbor kid or a friend of a friend of one of our nephews’ alarmingly pneumatic classmates/avid Rainbow Party helpmeets––we were a little vague re exactly who the little fucker was as we’d consumed a fair amount of brown liquor during the course of the day; suffice it to say that he had a complexion that more or less forces people around him to mentally cluster his zits together like so many pus-swollen constellations––was given the option of backing down, at which point he started making a number of less-than-clever references to our alleged supporting role in Brokeback Mountain
, which only served to bolster our resolve to give the kid a Holiday Beating and teach him a lesson about R-E-S-P-E-and you can spell the rest of it for your own damn self.
At some point, one of the aforementioned beneficiaries of our nation’s policy of liberally doping the bovine link of the food chain with copious amounts of growth hormones decided it might be cute to serve as a ring girl, which was unsettling and distracting even if it did lend the farce a certain amount of authenticity. (It should be noted that nearly all of the other adults present were opposed to our going through with the bout, with the principal home owners fretting audibly about insurance complications––should have thought about that before building a replica of Joey Eyes’ Olde Tyme Gym & Gambling Hall in your basement, Buffy––and that the actual Mom of Sakebomb was not on the premises at the time, which was likely a deciding factor in our putting the gloves on. We’d never beat up a teenage stranger in front of our Mom.)
Perhaps it was the bourbon or our utter disdain for our opponent, whose clumsy manhandling of the English language was a little like watching a cocker spaniel trying to play Challenge Yahtzee™, but the Hella in the Cella didn’t last very long. Although age and a long-standing disinterest in any physical activity whatsoever other than, um, fucking found us floating less like a butterfly than, say, a caterpillar, we still had the other part of the Ali dyad down, and in about the same amount of time it takes to read this sentence, we exploded the kid’s nose with a sharp right jab, upon which his corner man, our deeply unscrupulous Uncle P___, who according to more than one witness placed a moderate wager with the Dad of Sakebomb only moments before the fight began, a revelation that suggests a serious conflict of interest, given that he bet on us, threw in the towel. (That the D of S bet against us is sort of a sore subject. Let’s as they say on the daytime talk shows/slugfests Not Go There.)
In the spirit of the season, we gamely clapped our vanquished foe on the shoulder and sincerely expressed the hope that he would harbor no ill feeling toward us or our family, even though his nose was doing its best imitation of one of the more hemophiliac Romanovs after a shaving mishap. Later, our noticeably humbled antagonist, cotton wads browning sadly inside his nostrils, taught us how to pick up and murder a prostitute in the course of our first exposure to Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas
. It was a real lion lying down with the lamb moment and as such served as irrefutable proof that the Culture Mullahs are not going to get away with their War on Christmas.