I don’t write birthday messages. I write obituaries and ransom notes. But a man who calls himself “Uncle Wacky” requested my services, and I was curious what kind of person answers to that name voluntarily.
He informs me his niece, Edith McNugget, has turned 16. Sixteen years closer to the grave. Congratulations.
He held her as a baby at his wedding, where she screamed through the entire family photograph. Her first demonstration of sound judgment.
As a toddler, she projectile vomited at an Ethiopian restaurant with such violence that Uncle Wacky hasn’t eaten Ethiopian food since. An entire nation’s cuisine, erased by one small child. I’ve been trying to traumatize my brother like that for years. I’m envious.
Sadly, her judgment then deteriorated. In Spain, a country of crumbling cathedrals, ancient catacombs, and the Inquisition, she let Uncle Wacky take her to a shopping mall. Twice. They played arcade games and ate cotton candy. Both enjoyed themselves immensely. How embarrassing.
Now she’s grown into a smart, funny, kind, and genuinely wonderful young woman. Kindness is a flaw, but I’ll allow it.
Uncle Wacky says he’s proud of her, loves watching her grow up, and looks forward to the adventures ahead. The sentiment appears sincere. That’s the most disturbing part.
Happy 16th Birthday, Edith. May your future hold adventure, mischief, and the occasional spectacular disaster. Preferably not at an Ethiopian restaurant.
Wednesday Addams
on behalf of Uncle Wacky, who insists I add that he loves you. Added. Under protest.
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