How My Gay Uncle F'ed Up Christmas

Today, 9:32 am . . .

These chairs are less comfortable than having a bunch of rusty old nails shoved up your ass. And as I try to politely squirm around I’m feeling this kind of pulsating feeling in my pants. My slacks—that I’ve only worn twice in my life—they’re just light and smooth enough to slide by my boxer briefs in just the right way. I don’t know if that’s by design or if I’m just being hypersensitive. But I’m swelling for sure.

I swear to god, if I get an erection during a funeral . . . that will just be the end of it.

The final chapter in my skewed life.

Like dominoes, my embarrassment will be broadcast to the world in fleeting perverse fragments on Snapchat. I might end up trending on Twitter with a bunch of perverted hash tags I can’t even imagine. Heck, 15 pathetic seconds on Instagram is all it would take for the human race to banish me to the hills.

My gay uncle Gary, he once told me to think of old women getting torn apart by ravenous wolves whenever I feel a chubby coming. He said that’s the image that short circuits your brain into killing the blood supply to your wood.

He said it’s an age-old technique.

But if you think of that scene even one time while you’re masturbating . . . that’s it. From that moment on a pack of wild dogs chomping down on a bunch of old biddies is the turn-on of all time. So I’m trying not to think about that one, anymore.

When you’re sitting at a funeral, all sorts of things go swimming through your mind. Imagine ideas as electric eels just sparking and shocking those dark places in the back of your mind where you store all the really subdued, bridled memories you don’t care to think about. Ethereal, surreal, thoughts. All those skeletons in your proverbial closet.

Well, in my family model, the memories are a bit more unusual and unconventional—something between grotesque and absurd. Anyway, this is one of those stuffy occasions where you think about the things you desperately want to forget.

And there’s a peculiarity to everything. Like we’re all stuck in a graphic novel where colors have smells and people are two-dimensional. Everything gloss-covered and the perspective is off just a tinge. You know, we’re all wearing drab colors, and people aren’t sad enough to cry, but they don’t dare smile. They keep it just dark enough in here that even the people who are still alive might as well be corpses.

The living seem more dead than those who are speaking to us from the grave.

There’s a lot of furtive gesturing, shifty eyes and whatnot. I think this guy in front of me is somebody from my uncle’s side of the family. He’s got the same male-pattern baldness going on. Same pasty white skin with three or four coats of magic-tan spray—sun in a 6-ounce bottle. I don’t know if he’s gay or straight, or on one of those fences that bi-curious people find themselves straddling during their mid-30s. The woman that’s with him has jet-black hair that, up close, looks like strands of nylon. Like high-tensile strength fishing line. Guitar strings painted black.

People here don’t know how to be people. Honestly, I can’t tell you if any of them actually have any genetic connection to me. Biologically, I would put them somewhere between Homo erectus and Homo sapiens. They walk upright and basically understand how to use tools, but the concept of having a television screen on your cell phone boggles their minds. If they knew you could get on Google and see yourself from space they would probably shit all over themselves.

These are people pretending to be real people.

And I’m not just talking about that nice old lady with bluish-grey hair and mismatched earrings who thinks this is a wedding. I’m not referring to the well-dressed Hispanic midget in the front row that’s holding hands with a blond that could easily be a swimsuit model.

When you find yourself in an environment like this, with clocks not even ticking, at all . . . you have time to ponder the fabric of the universe. My mind is analyzing everything from a theoretical viewpoint. I could be Einstein, or Roger Penrose, or Stephen Hawkings. I need to focus on complex mathematical formulas.

Anything so that I don’t get a hard-on. You have to think of the more philosophical stuff.

That being said, I guess I need to tell you how my gay uncle fucked-up Christmas.