If there is a chance that someone can be offended at one of our family functions, it will happen. There are enough of us to almost guarantee that at one point or another, someone is going to say something that pisses off someone else. There may be immediate words, there may be whispered, "WTF"s, in some cases there might even be violence.
My youngest sister's wedding was exactly what I'm talking about and certainly no exception. All bridesmaids (4 sisters and a sister in law), groomsmen, and parents were to attend. Also included in our lovely bunch of coconuts were the spouses and significant others who were foolish enough to get sucked into the family fracas. Everything started out nicely enough. There were carts, coolers, and a general sense of good cheer. There were balls. What isn't better with balls? Nothing, I say.
I can't tell you exactly when things made a turn for ugly, but I can tell you where. Hole Three. While we made our way through holes one and two, the topic turned to mustache rides, as it does. What? I suppose we're the only ones who talk about this stuff? Highly unlikely. Now, for those of you not familiar with the term; A mustache ride is one of those fun little euphemisms for oral sex where the woman (presumably) rides the bushy mustache of a man (presumably).
It's important that you understand that no one biologically related to anyone at the outing was offering or soliciting mustache rides. Much like we don't tip cows, we also don't swim in the family gene pool. It's also worth noting that my family tends to have dark hair. The darker the hair, even among the women, the higher the probability that at some point in your life you will sport a visible mustache. Giggle if you want, but ask your cosmetologist sometime... wax isn't just for eyebrows and cha-chas.
I digress... we were approaching the third tee when one of the party (now former brother-in-law) said, "What's a mustache ride?"
My sister, sitting next to him on the slow moving cart, laughed. I walked casually along side, and as they slowed I turned to her and said, "Why don't you show him? You've got a mustache!"
I was fortunate to get mostly out of the way before she flung herself at me. She caught me by the shoulder and spun me around. The look was a mixture of fury and hysterical violence. If you recall the picture from an earlier post... back in 06 I didn't look like I took any crap from anyone. Though I'd never been in a chick fight, you would have put your money on me. I was um... brawny? Yeah, let's go with brawny. You would have lost. Truth is...I am a wuss. If I tried to pistol whip someone, I'd be the chick who smacked someone once then ran away, arms flailing, looking back every few seconds screaming.
No matter, after much scuffling, me trying to escape her grip, and what I'm sure looked like leg wrestling moves... she took me down. Within seconds, we were approached by our mother with a look that can only be described as murderous. We picked ourselves up off the fare way, tended to our wounds (okay I was the only one wounded), and looked apologetically at Mom (who still had her brows knitted and lips pursed so tight they were white).
As this same sister approaches her wedding day I am reminded of some critical points:
1. Don't talk about mustache rides.
2. I bruise easily.
3. I am a wimp.
4. Mustache rides are still 5 cents (I saw it on another blog so it must be true).
5. I should avoid any venue where my sister has an opportunity to kick my ass.