My uncle Dewey is twenty-seven, and has neither job nor friends. My mom thinks I should help with the latter.
"Don't make me do this," I begged her. "He's unbelievably stupid."
"Have him over for a movie with your friends," Mom ordered me. "He's not stupid. He's just pensive."
"No, he's stupid. One confusing weekend in Bangkok, and now he's convinced all Asian women have penises."
"Give him a chance. He needs friends."
He lumbered in at eight, Dewey, beloved creation of a demented deity or the doughy byproduct of something else's evolution, the hope and the dream of some primordial slurry.
"Movie night," he said. "There's three things I require in a movie. Know what they are?"
"How would I know what they are, Dewey?"
"Titties and the undead. HaHa." He punched my shoulder hard enough to dislocate something. "Get it, three things?"
It was already not working out.
submitted at 10:50pm
16 January 2012
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