I don’t know about your childhoods, but when I was growing up, I wasn’t always crazy about having to visit with distant relatives. You learn a lot about your roots when you start meeting these people — folks you’re supposed to love but hardly know. Some of those people are weirdos. And if they’re weirdos, that means you’re a weirdo by association. Congratulations. Think about the terrifying genetic cocktail that runs through your veins. Whoa, whoa…don’t think too hard. You’ll have an aneurysm.
I think it’s your parents’ jobs to expose you to these people; to remind you that no matter how highfalutin you consider yourself to be, you’re still just lowbrow gutterscum like all the rest of us. Welcome to the family.
If it’s OK with the both of you,
I’d really rather just stay in here.
Socialization’s just not what I do.
Especially with people so queer.
I know that this is my family
And I might never see them again.
But I say without hyperbole,
Every one is as awful as sin.
First thing’s first, a bit of preamble:
Our family is a union of freaks.
Creepy, greasy, with lives in shambles,
They’re robbers and liars, cheats and sneaks.
Take Aunt Eustace, for an example,
Her warts and pustules scattered around.
Her hair is poofed; bosom is ample;
She reeks as if she’s lived underground.
And then, of course, there’s Uncle Muldoon,
That pith helmet perched atop his head,
Always foretelling of his own doom.
You’d think that the man longed to be dead.
Don’t get me started on Mee Maw Maw,
Leathery like a lizard in heat,
Scarred like she’s been perpetually clawed.
Face that looks like a pound of ground beef.
And Stephen…ugh. What’s wrong with that kid?
Skin as slick as a doorknob in snot.
Leaks like a paint can that’s lost its lid;
Wrings with sweat even when it’s not hot.
Granny Huckles, all wrinkled and vile,
In her slippers and floral muumuu,
Burps as if it’s going out of style,
And passes gas like chimney flue.
Little cousin Malachi is worse
Than a constipated rattle snake.
He bites like a bear, kicks like a horse.
There’s just so much abuse I can take.
Stumbling around like a drunken lout,
I can’t stand Big Daddy Weatherby.
With an odor strong as he is stout,
His breath stinks of whiskey, clothes of pee.
And do not forget cousin Germane,
Raving he can’t eat from a blue dish.
You say he’s silly; I say insane.
You say he’s balky; I say hawkish.
Although you claim they’re just eccentric,
I don’t know who you think you’re fooling.
I mean, look at Uncle Roderick,
Who has, not once, ever stopped drooling.
There is something wrong with these people;
How can you even deny that’s true?
Course, obnoxious, lazy and evil,
Each and all of them a bit askew.
Though you may say I’m introverted,
I can’t feign joy during their visit.
All of them are much too perverted.
My disgust would be too explicit.
That’s why it’s best I simply decline
To emerge until they disappear.
Though I really do hate to malign,
I’d rather be rude than insincere.