My Ancestors Are Coming Over

My ancestors are coming to town this weekend to meet my girlfriend and I'm really nervous about it.

I hope my forefathers like her. She's a good cook when she exists. In fact, she makes a mean apple pie. I mean--a MEAN apple pie.

So mean it spits cobra venom in your eyes when you stick a fork in it.

I had to take her last apple pie to the apple pie pound to have it put down.

I don't know what she puts in her apple pie to make it so mean. It really is a vindictive and spiteful apple pie. Because of this, I've advised her not to make an apple pie for my ancestors when they come to town this weekend. So she's going to make an apple instead.

I love watching my girlfriend make apples! She takes an apple, puts it on a tree, and pulls it right back down. She's old fashioned like that. Just an apple and an apple tree and--SHAZAM--you've got apples!

Oh, and a ladder. She needs a ladder to climb up and down from the apple tree. She may be short, but she's definitely not tall.

Meanwhile, I've got to get some indentured servants from the Old World by Saturday. Good luck with that, huh?

Oh, and a girlfriend. I'm gonna need one of those, too. Duh!

I'd like to get Thandie Newton or Lisa Bonet to play her because I think my Uncle Jefferson would get along with either of them.

I'm also going to need a large patch of land where I can cultivate a sizable crop of tobacco in a mere five days. And I'm going to have to find somewhere spacious to put it since my apartment here in Queens is rather small.

Jeez Louise, why does it have to be THIS weekend that my ancestors are coming over?

I was going to spend those forty-eight hours masturbating so vigorously that I leave scars on my genitals!

But it's too late to cancel. They're already in the historical ether and can't receive text messages.

I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend before I can masturbate so vigorously that I dehydrate myself and end up in the emergency room with an I.V. drip.

No, I shouldn't neglect my ancestors. After all, they were there with me in the hospital when my parents died. It's always sad when parents die before their ancestors. I remember my Uncle Washington at my mother's funeral singing "Thank You For Being A Friend". It was so moving. He had sunglasses on, but I could still see the tears in his powdered wig.

What progress we've made since the 1770s! Nowadays, we wear our wigs on our heads and cry out of our eyes. But is that really progress? Take my Uncle Revere, for example. He wears horses for shoes and thinks the word "refrigerator" means "prostitute". Nowadays, we'd call that crazy. But put it into context, folks. After all, he was living in a time when everybody thought the world was fat.

Thanks to science, we now know the world isn't fat. It's slim and attractive and likes to jog and do yoga. But these are my ancestors, people! They brought what brought whatever it was that brought what brought what brought together the elements that brought whatever is was that brought me into the world--fat OR slender.

And they're coming to town to see me this weekend. So the least I can do for them is procure some hipster chick from Williamsburg to play the part of my girlfriend for 100 dollars and new porkpie hat.

So, yeah, I'm definitely going to have to put off masturbating so vigorously that my testicles turn purple, my eyesight is irreparably damaged and what little capacity I had of forming any meaningful interpersonal relationship with a real woman is utterly demolished.

That's what family's all about!