See You Next Tuesday

Hey gang, I've got to go bury my brother (Speaking of: are you checking balls? You should be checking balls. If you're not, go find some and check them) in our old family cemetery where --fun fact-- a young and comely Rhiannon Gammill was issued her one and only search warrant.

It was so exciting I still keep it in a little frame.

Anyhoodle, I'm going to be gone for the rest of the week. I'll return next Tuesday, hopefully with fun but not too lurid tales from the funeral.

There's nothing like a good Southern funeral, especially when there are some familial black sheep who can always be trusted to add a little excitement to the sweet tea and dry martini sensibilities of any stuffy Southern WASP event where the good silver makes an appearance.

Everyone's got one. Mine plays the harmonica & reportedly used to crossdress (am I remembering that right?)

My brother William and I used to make a drinking game each time our drunk but well-meaning uncle did something inappropriate at a funeral.

The last highlight was when DBWM Uncle nonchalantly grabbed a friendly-looking breast that happened to be attached to me. Now, he's drunk but well-meaning, not one of those uncles, so I loudly and publicly told him to keep his mitts off Thelma and Louise and called it a day. That was one drink in the drinking game.

William and I only drained our glasses when I approached D(etc.) Uncle's kinda sorta common-law wife (they'd been living together on a boat for a few years, so that means...something? Maybe?) hoping she'd wrangle him before he made even more of an ass out of himself.

"Your husband just grabbed my breast."

She took a long sip from what my memory has turned into a red go-cup, and looked at me, unimpressed and unfazed.

"Well. He's your uncle."

aaaand scene.