The Root of All Evil

by Ed Sofield

It’s not Wednesday, ladies and gentlemen, but it might as well be.

It’s Good Friday (why ‘They’ call it that is beyond me, since I think it has something to do with the nailing of the Messiah up on a hardwood cross and making him bleed to death…wasn’t very good for him, was it?). I can’t seem to find anything good about this one. It is raining outside. I can’t seem to get laid for the life of me. And to top it all off, I have to endure Easter Sunday dinner with the ‘rents.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family. I love getting together with them and berating my sister’s Canadian boyfriend (whom none of us have met……we all say things like “I dunno what you’re talking aboot”…and “gimmee a Molson Light, eh?” and end all our sentences with “Cheers!”). And I love getting out of NYC for awhile. I live in the Bronx, the mid-level hood, and it isn’t the prettiest sight after living practically on the beach for four years.

But I am not one to delve into social situations without bitching aboot (sorry….about) it first. So here I go:

I can’t use a knife and fork properly. I can’t seem to make myself believe that everyone isn’t watching me eat. I can’t can’t CAN’T stand it when people crack jokes about me (I know we spend half the night making fun of Mr. Can-aa-da, but this is me we’re talking about now). And when I finally ease myself back into a comfortable comatose state, well, then comes the big conversation:

“When are you going back to school? What are you doing with your job? Did you get a raise yet? Any girls?”

And then, come Monday (again), I go to work and face the most smarmy Brit to ever live in this country. You know the first thing HE asks me?

“Have any sex over the weekend?”

Yeah, you bastard. With the family cat.