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As it drew closer I began to dread the unavoidable year-end trip back to the West Coast for a week of freakishly warm weather, binge drinking only thinly veiled as coping with my parents, and inevitably running into people who consider the fact that we went to the same high school reason enough to inquire about my life. At some point my thoughts returned to Wanda Sykes, her DVD having migrated as far back as possible in the drawer, in the back next to my socks and sadly unused condoms. One stone, two birds.
If there is one thing that I look forward to when returning home it is the chance to relentlessly fuck with my brother. His skin is about as thick as a paper towel and I have a penchant for continuously pushing his buttons in the way that only an older brother can. Confrontations with my sibling have the added bonus of witnessing my parents' increasing frustration and eventual loss of patience with our constant bickering. Knowing that my brother would be expecting some half-assed gift for Christmas, I did not want to disappoint him. Wrapping up the Wanda Sykes DVD and putting his name on it, I couldn't wait to see Brett's reaction opening gifts by the tree.
With the general apathy and lack of fanfare that anyone in their twenties feels on Christmas, I listened to my parent's annual morning argument, poured myself a stiff mimosa, and settled down as far away from the Manheim Steamroller-blaring stereo as possible. Giddy from the practical joke that was only a few minutes away from fruition, I ignored my mother's usual comments about our families' lack of Christmas spirit, tuning her out as I awaited my sleep-deprived brother's descent downstairs.
Noticing that my gift to him was obviously a DVD, Brett wasted no time in belittling me and my perceived thoughtlessness. With gestures of urgency I got him to shut up and just open the damn thing, his face providing me with the reaction I had been hoping for. Confusion lead to disbelief before turning into anger when I looked at him and commented earnestly that I thought it was something he would like. I explained that he was a difficult kid to shop for and after an exhaustive effort, I thought Sick and Tired was the best gift choice. At that Brett raised his hands incredulously and said that I was a moron. I lost my composure and nearly fell out of the chair with laughter. Lying on the floor, in-between laughing spasms, I think I heard him call me a dick.
After presents were unwrapped attention turned to the hearty breakfast that stood waiting our devouring and I completely forgot about my little partner in shenanigans. Possibly thrown away with the paper, tinsel, and other disposable articles of Christmas, taken home by a bewildered grandfather, or dragged outside by the dog and given a proper burial, Sick and Tired was not seen after breakfast. I never actually watched it, but I would like to thank Wanda Sykes, who has been called one of the funniest stand up comics by her peers and ranks among Entertainment Weekly's 25 Funniest People in America, for the much-needed infusion of humor that she brought to the Alfoldy family on Christmas. SEE ALSO: www.wandasykes.com
An aspiring global adventurer who cut his teeth on the sandy beaches and dirty bitches of Southern California, Kevin Alfoldy now spends his non-vacation days in Brooklyn, New York, where he occasionally finds the time to rub the crust out of his eyes long enough to contribute reviews and feature articles for LAS. A longtime staff member, Kevin also captains the tattered, often half-sunk raft of EPmd, our irregular column of EP reviews.
See other articles by Kevin Alfoldy.
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