Uncle Fathead

​He’s been staying with us for some time so we had to include him in our Thanksgiving plans. He drank too much Thanksgiving morning though, and passed out.  

Karena: AT LEAST I CAN COOK WITHOUT HIM GETTING IN THE WAY.

We sat down to eat, but his empty chair reminded us that he could wake up at any minute and immediately begin making petulant demands.
Midway through dessert, we heard his incoherent bellows.  I rushed to attend to him.  
He’s notoriously picky.  I gave him a crescent roll, a few ounces of turkey, and a single black olive. While he was waiting impatiently for his food, he yanked the tablecloth, almost spilling Quincy’s milk.  He ate the turkey and threw his plate on the floor.

Karena: I THINK HE WANTS SOME PIE.
Me: Don’t act like he’s a real person.

He doesn’t know anything. Why waste good pie on a slob like that?  He’s fat enough already. I gave him something to drink instead. I didn’t know how someone could drink again so soon after the morning’s excesses, but anything to keep him quiet so he wouldn’t ruin Thanksgiving.
He didn’t even finish his drink before he started yelling gibberish.  He keeps his electronic drum machine, his favorite thing, in our living room, so I led him in there. He turned on one of the demo songs – he doesn’t even play the damn drums – and a noisy rumba promptly drowned out the dinner conversation.  
I shouted at him to turn it down but of course he paid me no mind.  When I went in to do it myself, I found that he’d taken a dump in his pants.  My face wrinkled in disgust.  

He just laughed at me.

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