I'm worried about my family picnic. Why?
My upstairs neighbor Ruth Cohen, widow on a pension, says, "such angst I've never seen" and my downstairs neighbor Patsy, a retired hit man, says, "drink a little wine, eat some linguini, take the cannoli." Cecily and Tina, the lesbian line chefs, offered to cook and pretend to be my girlfriends. That's why I’m worried.
I rented grove three in Mingo Park. Three's nice, away from the drunks at the ball fields, away from the covered bridge photographers traipsing through the poison ivy, away from the trout stream sans trout that now attracting children in leaky, poison-filled diapers. This might actually work, I think. But still, I worry Half the members of my family raise chickens and pigs and still got that big, old six-foot satellite dish rusting next to the coop, the other half are city folk, pretending they ain't related to the first half.
I might die before I stop worrying.
* * *
"That's it? That's all it says?"
"That's all it says, lieutenant. We found it next to the, ah, remains."
"Well, I guess we should be thankful we've got something to go on. Lucky the ants didn't eat that as well."
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Anon.