On Sunday, it was my mother-in-law's birthday, and so we got together at a local foodery to have a celebratory dinner. It was, of course, horrible, as I am deeply loathed by the wife's family.

When we arrived, the in-laws were waiting for us. We easily picked out the table they were sitting at from the merry balloons that waved in the air; they each said, "Over Here, Beautiful Daughter And Slime-Thing!" So we joined them and exchanged some hugs and, in my case, some hearty jabs to the face courtesy of the wife's father. "Good! To! See! You!" he grunted as he playfully dislodged a few molars. "Fank you, shir," I replied, absorbing the blows with what I hoped was good humor.

Presently, the wife's brother also arrived, completing our party. I get on pretty good with the fellow, based on the fact that he doesn't reflexively punch me on sight. "Hey dude!" I exclaimed when he appeared, and he replied with a good-natured "Get fucked, Admiral Dick." I took this as a sort of promotion, since the last time I had seen him, he had called me "Sergeant Douche." Confusingly, he also occasionally refers to me as "shit-pain," so really, I don't know where I really rank at any given time.

We ordered and ate, and that was nice enough. It must be said that my mother-in-law, who has had weight issues for years, has recently embarked on an ambitious weight-loss regimen, to spectacular effect. She has lost over 100 pounds to date, and I am pleased (as is she) to report that she is very nearly not there any more. Several times during the meal--hers consisted of one french fry; she used the rest as missile weapons directed at my skull--I was able to hear her bones grind against one another.

"That's some pretty good osteo-clatter!" I said to her brightly. She shrugged with a noisy rattle of her scapula and pitched another french fry at my head while her husband knocked me in the jaw once more.

Though it was properly the mother-in-law's birthday, it was also a slightly late celebration of brother-in-law's belated birthday, and so gifts were exchanged. The wife gave her mother a lovely 4-CD set of something called Drunks Who Died Years Ago Or Should Have featuring songs by crooners like Tony Blanchett and The Arizona Dog Society. Brother-in-law was similarly treated to a DVD game not dissimilar to the famous Scene It line, except this one was called "RIFF!" and purports to be at least six minutes of racking nausea while a roomful of party-players attempt to retain consciousness when the guitar figure of Bush's "Glycerine" suddenly assaults them from TV speakers.

Eventually the evening wore down and we exchanged goodbyes. The wife hugged her family warmly, and her father socked me affectionately in the jaw a couple times. "Good night, heathen!" he yelled; then her brother kneed me in the groin and said, "Stop touching my sister, you fucking creep." "Admiral creep!" I hollered, but to no effect. He stuck a screwdriver in my back. "You've been demoted, shit-pain." What a drag. I liked being an officer.

I can't wait for Christmas!