You could hear the air change the second Uncle Lou crossed the threshold—like the atmosphere knew what was coming and braced for impact. He shuffled in, coat still buttoned, already muttering about how “traffic was better before seatbelts were invented.”

By the time he reached the table, he’d already launched into his standard playlist:

“Back when gas was affordable”

“Nobody respects a man’s right to own a crossbow anymore”

“Kids today wouldn’t survive a real winter—ours had wolves”

We all knew the trick: nod, smile, pass him the mashed potatoes as a distraction. But Uncle Lou was a conversational honey badger—he didn’t care, he didn’t stop, and he could sniff out any attempt to change the subject.

Dessert was the last hope. If you could get him chewing pie, you’d buy yourself three solid minutes of peace. But Uncle Lou… Lou didn’t chew. He monologued through the pie. By the time coffee arrived, we’d all mentally planned an escape route involving the side door, a decoy coat rack, and a diversion involving the cat.

Afterward, as Uncle Lou was holding everyone hostage in the living room, my wife and I snuck back in the kitchen where the interrogation began:

“Why did you invite him?” I whispered.

“I didn’t invite him, I thought you invited him.”

“What?!”

Before we could resolve the marital whodunnit, my sister came bouncing in from the kitchen, beaming like she’d just discovered fire. “Isn’t it wonderful to see Uncle Lou again? I tracked him down after all these years!” She clasped her hands, glowing with pride, while we both stared at her in the kind of disbelief usually reserved for alien landings. “He’s soooo refreshing in his ideals!”, she continued.

With a mutual glance my wife and I silently agreed it was time to break out the bourbon instead of the knives.