Those were the days.

Thank you. I mean that. It’s a nice sentiment. But I’d rather have a series of recreational colonoscopies than spend a week with you freaks. Seriously.

It’s not personal. I don’t dislike any of you in particular. I dislike all of you, as a group. That may be a bit harsh considering I don’t really know most of you, and I apologize to any of you who aren’t dickhead conservative, bible thumping, self-righteous, hypocritical assholes, but the rest of you can kiss my ass. I mean it. If I wanted to spend a fucking week sober and surrounded by religious zealots, I’d do it here,  for less.

I could go to rehab. It’s covered by insurance, the food’s pretty damned good, and they have linen service. There’s a ping-pong table, a big screen TV, organized outdoor activities, Friday movie night, an on-call nursing staff, and last, but certainly not least, slutty rehab chicks. Granted, group therapy and daily twelve-step meetings suck major ass, but it’s cheap and doesn’t require flying.

Or, I could join a cult. The food would suck, the hours are long, and I hear there’s a seriously intense initiation period, but look at the rewards for Christ’s sake – 1.) Eternal salvation aboard a heavenly spaceship; and 2.) Slutty cult chicks. There really is no downside.

Again, I do appreciate the invitation. But there is no way in hell I’ll be there. Here’s an idea: Have the next family reunion here in Nashville.

Give me an excuse to leave town.

About the Author: Jon Carter Jackson

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