PORT JEFFERSON, NY -- With the table conversation quickly running dry at the Johannigans family Memorial Day Weekend dinner, somebody needed to step up and re-energize it. As members of the family poked around at their food desperately searching their minds for a thought to vocalize, the lingering silence continued, demanding to be broken. But most were held speechless.
"I had some things passing through my mind," said Brian Johannigans, 17. "But it was all inappropriate stuff. It was just a freight train of lewd and disturbing thoughts that I was powerless to stop. It's like when somebody tells you to try and not imagine a pink elephant.
"My first impulse was to say, 'I'm gonna shove this fucking asparagus up my ass and go rub some aloe on my balls.' I have no idea why I thought to say any of that. I really have no desire to put steamed vegetables in my ass, nor did I need to apply a salve to my testicles, let alone announce it to the table."
"I really wanted to mention how nice the weather outside was, but it had already been mentioned three or four times. I couldn't bring myself to do it," lamented Uncle Bert, who silently prayed for a thundershower to pass through and provide new fodder for weather conversation.
Finally, upon realizing that nobody had commented on the home-made garlic mashed potatoes yet, Aunt Carol saved the day.
"I just said, 'These are really delicious mashed potatoes, Barbara.'"
With this stroke of genius, the floodgates opened.
"Yeah, they're great."
"Do you have a recipe for them?"
"What kind of potatoes did you use?"
As the mashed potato conversation flowed, all Brian could think to say was, "These truly are exquisite tubers, how about I dip my hairy balls in them? Excusez-moi, I'm going to go take a monster shit and wipe my ass with the shower curtain."
"Again with the ass and balls, and this time with a French expression thrown into the mix," he pondered later. "I honestly don't know where these thoughts were coming from."
When the potato talk finally ran its course after 17 minutes, Uncle Bert, whose mind was by then as dry and empty as the Sonoran Desert, summoned a fake yawn and stretch, lying that he had to "wake up early for work tomorrow," a Sunday, and "should really get going," resisting his sister-in-law's insistence that he and his family stay for dessert.
"I had to get the hell out of there," Uncle Bert later acknowledged. "I was in no mood to make exaggerated moans of pleasure in order to convey my approval of the key lime pie."