As Joshua once said, “Would you like to play a game?”

Stick you hand out in front of you, with all five fingers extended, your palm facing outward. If, by some cruel twist of fate, you are missing fingers, then this game may be a bit more difficult to play along with.

Now bend your middle finger, and your ring finger into your palm, while folding your thumb over them. If you have followed my instructions correctly, you should be making the “sign of the beast” coined by Ronnie James Dio, and seen at heavy metal concerts ‘round the world. This was what my two-year-old cousin was doing during synagogue.

He makes me smile. Rock on, Drew. Rock on.

So Friday evening dinner was ruined when my uncle’s brother-in-law forced me to suck air through the side of my mouth when he, and his halitosis sat next to me. I couldn’t turn my head ninety degrees to the right without having to recoil from a stench wave.

As if this weren’t enough, I passed him my plate for some brisket, as the platter was too large to pass around. After spearing some pieces with the serving fork, he used his finger to slide the meat off the fork. I almost lost my appetite.

It’s a good thing my mother wasn’t around to see this. When I told her about it the next morning, she said, “Wow. I don’t think he washes his hands after going to the bathroom.”

Ugh.

I think I’m going to be sick.

And speaking of sick, (lovely segue) I think I caught a cold at some point the next evening. This dinner at my uncle’s sister’s place was a debacle from the start. Let’s cram about thirty people into a tiny apartment, and eat food prepared by someone who can’t cook. Oh, and let’s not do anything silly like turn on the air conditioning.

The apartment was suffocatingly hot. At one point, I looked across the room to another table, and my vision was distorted by waves of heat. It was so crowded, and so hot, it was like a goddamn Turkish prison. I felt like I was doing time for smuggling hash.

And the food! The first thing everyone did when the chicken was brought out, was cut into it to make sure it was cooked through. Another holiday, a few years ago, I ate two-thirds of a chicken breast only to discover that the area around the bone was uncooked.

This year, though cooked, the chicken was so dry; it was like slicing off a nice forkful of steel-belted radial tire. Mmm, rubber chicken.

Similarly, everything else was ruined. Potatoes? Greasy. Mashed potatoes? Salty. Jello? Bland. Gefilte fish? Sorry, I wouldn’t eat it anyway.

Why she doesn’t have this catered, I’ll never know. She spends tons of money on food to feed thirty; it would be better spent on a caterer.

And the children. Now, I’m excluding my little cousins Lily (3), and Drew (2) because they are fairly well behaved children, but these other little shits were running around and accidentally popping balloons. You know, after the eighth time, I think it ceases to be an accident.

So my brother, Ryan, his wife, Jen, and I cut out and went to a diner. Ryan and Eric, had grilled cheese with bacon. Jen had a chicken cheesesteak, and I had a pizza bagel. I think it must have been ten years easily since I had a pizza bagel.

That was some good eating.

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