Occasionally sent to retrieve my lil’ sister (Bree) and cousin (Kathleen) from their private nun-guarded edifice of education, I oft on these occasions send the odd text in order to inform said girls the make and model of my vehicle as well as the when and where to meet me. Because of the now numerous siblings, uncles, cousins, fathers, and well-trained pets capable to carpool, constant cellular communication is crucial, see? Continue reading
To Tiffany with many heartfelt apologies . . .
Don’t tell my sister-in-law, Tiff, about any of this. Seriously, say nothing. My brother Pat and I have just arrived home from Vegas and well . . . need I admit more? Sin City offers a never-ending supply of mischief for two young men and being efficient travelers, we had to catch them all. When we had finished, Pat even invented a few new ones (he IS an engineer). But let’s keep that to ourselves. Silence is particularly important when Tiff is nearby, say within several miles from your vocal chords, which she might snatch from your still-living body if she ever heard a syllable of the truth. For the health of you, me, Pat, my larynx, and 6 billions of the world’s population, let’s keep this between ourselves.
If you happen to be walking down the road and perchance run into her, deny the whole incident with a laugh and a dirty joke. That punch line might earn you a slap in the face, causing your cheeks to swell and puff like an allergic reaction to bees or peanut butter, but it’s better than inadvertently revealing the truth, the horrible despicable truth. You might lose a lung then or a heart – if you happen to be an octopus and possess more than one – but it’s far preferable to giving Tiff any clues that might allow her to uncover this horrible insidious puzzle. You can always grow more organs or borrow your neighbor’s, but these grotesque secrets, once revealed, will not disappear again from her memory much like the stains of crushed lung on a white dress shirt.
Thus, try not talk at all. Simply divert her attention by pointing over her shoulder, shout “Hey, is that Shia LaBeouf?” and then run like hell . . . but not in a serpentine pattern. That only works with alligators, not with Tiffany, who is a doctor and thus above such reptile chicanery.
Running isn’t a good idea either though. Tiff will track you down and lay your soul bare. It’s best to hide, quivering in a dumpster when she mounts her horse, Bloodmane, and races through the streets summoning the legion of the undead. The ground will shake and the earth will tremble. Your only gambit is to whimper and cry: it won’t stop her from razing the secrets of your soul but the mass of accumulated tears might block her from sight for three additional seconds.
Never mention the turtle. EVER.
You shouldn’t mention anything about money either, especially the large sums Pat lost at the slots. Kindly do not mention the roulette wheel at all, an incident which may actually be worse than the turtles, those delicious . . . delicious turtles.
Don’t attempt to lie either. My sister-in-law’s gaze can piece stone, steel and even flesh just like a magic eight ball. I once saw her immobilize a T-rex with a single glace and decapitate a 40-year-old man in California (posing online as a ten-year old Asian girl) for revealing the season finale to Gray’s Anatomy. The papers reported something about shark attack, but I know the truth, which by the way Tiff must never know about.
If you enjoy the idea of barbells flying across the room, feel free to mention the amount of money we spent on the buffet or the cost of the ‘clothing-optional’ party in Suite 3. Just wait until I’ve left the room and/or border first please. Thank you.
Cheating doesn’t help us in this conspiracy either. So don’t try it. I know you’re thinking about covering it all up with cement shoes and crop circles, but trust me it won’t work. Last week, I stole an extra vowel in Scrabble and that night her scowling bloodshot eyes haunted my dreams and tormented my nightmares, like Freddy Kruger or that scene from The Ring (You know the one . . . When the girl with black hair climbs from the well and . . . Ahhhhhhh!) Only Tiff’s eyes are like a million times worse. My imaginary friends won’t allow me to cheat at Scrabble anymore for fear of reprisal.
Yeah, just go ahead and reveal our little dirty secret. Go ahead. I won’t stop you. And when she explodes in rage and consumes all life on this planet in her most unholy fury, I won’t even say ‘I told you so.’ Indeed no one will be left on the planet to say much of anything. Except cockroaches, and really, who understands them?
Sure, you might think those special ‘trading-cards’ they give out on Vegas streets hilarious, but if Tiff unearths our complete set of autographed cards, she’ll trade our entire collection for fracture and contusion, the names of her left and right fists.
And Tiff . . . if you somehow read this, it was Pat’s idea. Every sordid bit, bet, and midnight whisper was devised in your husband’s corrupt mind. I acted merely as an innocent bystander, a simple puppet to his puppet-controlling evil. So don’t blame me or even think of me. Let’s think of puppies instead, beautiful loveable puppies who never keep secrets from us about their vacation in Las Vegas.