Cousins are a troublesome group.
Cousins, from the French: Cushions, are people you know and don't know. Like the milkman and Kanye West. They are a collection of similar DNA placed at the interpersonal distance equivalent to the being across a well lillypadded pond in that you recognize parts of them but their details are shaky and their odor is damp.
Etymologicallyallyally and romantically cousins are most popular in the South of the United States of America because of their French background courtesy of the Bourbon royal family's support during the American civil war. When a representative from the Bourbon family remarked on a Southern emissary's particularly husky young female cousin's behind as being "More cushion for the pushin", an idiom and a lifestyle were born. Immediately thinking that sleeping with portly semi-distant relatives was all the rage in Paris and not wanting to be seen as provincial, every Southerner with a braeburn shaped uncle's daughter was to be suddenly gallivanting about town, arm in arm with their rotund kin saying things like "Extra grits for my lovely blood relative please." the goal being to have the most cousin for "pushin" to show off they're ability to not only afford to feed their cousins to the point of what was eventually to become an epidemic, but also to show that, like the French, they too got hard at the mere thought of big fat cousins. Soon after it was discovered that these Southern aristocrats thought that French people were cousin lovers the Bourbon Family (themselves from a bamboo shoot of a family tree) became affronted at such behavior and ordered their support for the confederates be revoked thus winning the war for the the Union. The French left without a word and it has always been assumed by the population of the confederate states that it was because they had beaten the French, known to be the world's great lovers, at their own game and instead of admitting they had been bettered at inbreeding had simply left in a huff like cowards in the night. A reputation that the Second World War did nothing to help.
However for most of us cousins are simply the people we have to visit at the less important holidays like Thanksgiving and your grandmother's birthday who smell wrong and have strange family traditions. Here is my field guide to dealing with cousins:
1.Don't have sex with your cousin.
2.If your cousin offers to have sex with you kindly decline and say "I think Grandma's opening her presents now we should probably go back into the living room".
2a. Say this especially when it's not your grandmother's birthday so your cousin thinks you might have lost your mind. It will comfort them to believe that even if you do tell someone what they proposed no one will believe crazy old you anyways which will make the next time they ask you to pass the stuffing much less awkward.
3.Don't introduce your cousins to your friends. Cousins are inevitably lonely people (except for you of course. you are the cousin that has it all going on.) and will latch desperately onto your friend group and claim kinship as the reason you have to let them hang out with you. It's much easier to just give them a false phone number and go about your business.
I hope this has been helpful and informative.
A new form of journalism is coming at you on this day. It's the Betts Beat. Covering all the stories that the "mass media" tries to hide. Join me every week as I uncover the meatiest stories of the preceding 168 hours.
November 11th, 2011
Lonesome Pete shows bulls how it's done
This week there was a tumultuous donnybrook at the local tapestry retailer, Lonesome Pete's Tapestry Emporium That Ruined My Marriage But I Hold Onto It Just To Show That Bitch That Opening a Tapestry Store Wasn't The Worst Mistake of My Life (generally referred to by the locals simply as Lonesome Pete's), when a drunken and irate Lonesome Pete set fire to a tapestry worth over $500 and assaulted a rodeo clown after a customer asked how his wife was doing.
Enraged and fueled by a steady diet of poppers and cinnamon flavoured whiskey, Lonesome Pete (or Pete as he prefers to be called) began headbutting the western-themed entertainer to the tune of "What becomes of the broken hearted" by Jimmy Ruffin while allegedly screaming "Can't you read my fucking sign!?!" as onlookers originally cheered and laughed thinking it was part of an act then, upon understanding the situation, proceeded to bet on how many verses of the classic Motown favorite Lonesome Pete would make it through before he developed whiplash. The clown, who refused to be named, was in L.P.T.E.T.R.M.M.B.I.H.O.I.J.T.S.T.B.T.O.A.T.S.W.T.W.M.O.M.L. looking for a calming blue tapestry to buy as a wedding gift for his betrothed bull whom he is to marry in international waters on the summer solstice of next year. When squeezed for a comment, his squeaky nose was quoted as saying "honk!" but his mouth, as controlled by his comatose brain, refused to speak to reporters.
After craniumly assaulting the barreled bozo Lonesome Pete ran out to the forest to gather moss and twigs to start a fire. His reasoning for this was unclear as there was a flamethrower in the back of his store just begging to be used. Upon returning with the desired supplies and with a scout troupe in tow whom he was about to "teach a goddamned lesson to", he tore down a tapestry of unparalleled intricacy and proceeded to ignite it using the friction caused by rubbing his sticks and moss together in it's center and "hoping for the best" as he has never been into the woods before in his "goddamned" life. As it turns out he is a natural.
No charges were laid as it was his own property which he set alight and no one really cares about a rodeo clown who's into bestiality. The clown was taken to the forest and shot execution style by the boy scout troupe to earn their "bettering society one bullet at a time" badge. When asked for comment Lonesome Pete said that he "never loved that bitch anyways and he hopes she gets gonorrhea."
On the plus side, local gambling addict "Steve" can keep his knees a little while longer thanks to having correctly bet that whiplash would set in after the lyrics "I've got to find some piece of mind" on it's second reprieve and winning $250 which his wife made him immediately give to her in order to pay off the mafia.
I've decided I need a website that I can update myself and mess around with blogging and such so I'm setting this up now. My good friend Jonah Coombes set up a great website for me but he's a busy guy and I always felt bad asking him to update things for me cause I'm too stupid to work out how the magic box with the porn and free movies is able to make my face go to people's houses.
So here we are. This is me while I'm doing this in my apartment with a bottle of Russell's Reserve rye, a shot glass and a recently empty bowl of Honeycombs by my side.
You can see how I'm flummoxed.
So this will evolve and change and dance and sing and make you laugh both with me and at me over time. Check it for upcoming shows, random online diary-ing and gratuituous use of multisyllabic verbosity as well as videos, updates and nonsense.
Chris Betts isn't funny. I've said it before and I'll say it again. (If anyone can send me a doo-wop beat to sing that over I'd really appreciate it)
I'm gonna make this site less shitty now. Later.