Well, Father’s Day is tomorrow, and I sure hope it goes better than Mother’s Day. What a disaster!
As I do every Mother’s Day, I spent all morning in the kitchen over a hot stove, preparing a fine brunch.
It was to be one of the extravagant feasts I’ve become famous for throughout the Greater Los Angeles Area, especially among the hot young woman set. Of course, I could have plopped a cold can of Spaghettios on the table and these women, the overwhelming majority of them successful actresses and models, would find The Sarge irresistible. But that’s not my style.
Back to Mother’s Day. The menu I planned was ornate.
An opening cocktail of fresh strawberry bellinis followed by shrimp salad in avocado cups with Dijon vinaigrette. The main course consisted of stuffed roast leg of lamb, Serrano ham and Manchego cheese roulade, asparagus bundles bound with bacon and scallions, and Greek roasted new potatoes. And for dessert, orange-glazed blueberry scones with yogurt cream sauce. It should have been a perfect Mother’s Day meal.
But after we all sat down to enjoy the extravagant feast I had so lovingly prepared, things started go south right at the first course. G-D bellinis!
See, my family drinks. Mom especially. And she and dad just started pounding those delicate cocktails, and when they were gone, mom brought the bottle of gin out of her purse. She got so bombed that she tried to light an asparagus spear, thinking it was one of her GPC Menthol 100s.
I hadn’t even served the orange-glazed blueberry scones when mom and dad were passed the fuck out on the floor. Brunch was ruined, and my obese brother Mathew and his wife Kyle just sobbed while my mom’s illegitimate son, Plinko, who she conceived while camping out in line at The Price Is Right, split without saying a damn thing. Thanks everyone! Way to make me feel appreciated.
Well, I was so upset, I decided to go for a dip in the pool to cool off. But I made the mistake of not waiting at least a half-hour after I ate and got a cramp. It was awful, almost as terrifying as when I was nearly taken by the sea after getting caught in a riptide last year.
Luckily, my obese brother Mathew was near and used his fat strength to hoist me out of the pool and, instead of performing mouth-to-mouth, administered the cure all my mom had used on us as kids for everything from a stubbed toe to spinal meningitis: whiskey.
I guess that did the trick, and by the time I fully came to I was nearly as bombed as my mom and dad so we all drove to the Indian Casino and played slots. I won $15, which sort of saved Mother’s Day, but not quite.
Let’s hope Father’s Day isn’t such a boondoggle!
In addition to being America’s foremost authorities on technology, Martin and The Gator are great readers. And they bring this passion for the written word to the first annual Infected Festival of Books. Drew Curtis, founder of Fark.com, stops by to talk about his new book, It’s Not News, It’s Fark: How the Mass Media Tries to Pass Off Crap as News. Plus there’s Rickey Kang, Johnny O’Bannion and a new game: Black Feminist Book or Black Themed Porno? Curl up next to the fire wearing your inside pants with a nice snifter of tawny port and crack open The Infected Festival of Books!