Orchard Park, NY—Never one not to please his mom, local master craftsman, Geoffrey Pierce, reluctantly invited his mother’s brother, Uncle Paul to his family’s Fourth of July celebration. Like the Labor Day barbecue Uncle Paul wrecked at the end of last summer he once again showed up in his ill-fitting Buffalo Distilling Company, “One Foot Cock” t-shirt and of course was thirsty for a few bourbons, straight up.
After knocking back his first bourbons and changing the Spotify radio station from Michael Bublé to Bob Seger, his twelve-year-old grand-nephew, Cole, who was hanging out with some of his friends asked him about his shirt. Uncle Paul said, “The One Foot Cock… oh yeah, that’s some good stuff. If you’re inexperienced the One Foot Cock might be a little rough going down at first. But, if you keep at it, in no time you’ll be downing the One Foot Cock, like nobody’s business.” Taking his leave to use the rest room Uncle Paul wasn’t quite sure why the boys were giggling and thought to himself, “What’s so funny about a One Foot Cock?”
Giving his mom the stink eye, Pierce was happy to be rid of Uncle Paul, at least for a few moments. But disaster was not far behind. After fifteen or so minutes Uncle Paul emerged from the bathroom off the kitchen asking Pierce’s wife, Sheila, who was prepping some salads with her two sisters, if they had a plunger. “I maybe overdid ‘Taco Tuesday’ a little bit last night,” he said with a smile. The issue of a plugged toilet, however, paled in comparison to the toxic cloud that followed Uncle Paul, which was so intense and overwhelming the three women ran from the kitchen gasping for air. Preparing the grill Pierce heard his wife call his name: “Geoffrey Pierce!… Geoffrey Pierce!!!” When she used both his first and last names, he knew he was in trouble.
After unplugging the toilet and airing out the kitchen and vomiting twice, all while Uncle Paul continuously jabbed him for having the constitution of a snowflake, Pierce finally got to the grill and roasted up some fine burgers, dogs and Jamaican jerk chicken. He also seared some corn on the cob to a crispy golden-brown and added just the right amount of seasoning to a pan of mixed vegetables. When everybody was fed and there had been no Uncle Paul related incidents for over an hour Pierce poured himself a bourbon thinking the worst was past as the sun gave way to the hot dusky evening.
But, of course, he was wrong. From the trunk of his car Uncle Paul pulled out some fireworks and right away set the dead apple tree Pierce was having removed over the coming weekend ablaze with a Roman Candle. It was a spectacular fire that melted several sections of vinyl fencing and took the Vigilant Fire Company an hour to put out. Fallen branches littered the swimming pool and several thousand dollars of landscaping had been ruined extinguishing the fire.
Pierce could hardly could believe his eyes as he looked at the mess that was his beautiful, perfectly manicured yard when Uncle Paul sidled up next to him looking at where the tree used to be and said, “At least you don’t have pay for that apple tree to come down.”
It took several firefighters to first, remove Pierce’s hands from Uncle Paul’s neck, and then to restrain him.
