I don't visit my grandma very often. In fact, I would rather stab myself in the face than visit her. The reason for this is because she is A, offensively racist and B, deadly boring. Seriously, the woman doesn't understand the concept of a 2-sided conversation. Her favorite topics of discourse are:
1. Why every thing non-German sucks. (Guess what nationality my grandma is.)
2. Why Eastern Europeans suck.
3. How much the neighbors suck.
4. How the neighbors suck because they are non-German.
5. Polish people.
6. DEUTSCHLAND UBER ALLES.
Look, I know that she's probably been through some pretty hard times, but this doesn't change the fact that after hearing her bitch about Jews for the Nth time, I'm usually about ready to put a gun to my temples. The woman is so boring I often suspect that, during the late 1930s, she was genetically engineered in a secret nazi lab as part of a super-secret psychological warfare op, then sent to England to lower Allied morale and induce MASS SUICIDE FROM BOREDOM in the British population.
I try to avoid visiting when humanly possible. However, today I went somewhere with my parents, and on the journey home, my dad decided that we should see how grandma was doing, given that we were in the area. If I had any goddamn sense, I would've screamed loudly, dived out the car, and ran the rest of the way home; but nooooooooooo, I just had to go and keep my fat mouth shut, and suffer for it. Besides, grandma had a new dog (a ridgeback), and given that I like dogs, I sort of wanted to see him. (It's a sad day when you care more about housepets than human family members.)
We enter grandma's house, and head in to the garden, as it's a warm day, and the inside of the house stinks of canine secretions. The dog comes up to greet us, and yes, he's absolutely adorable. My grandma starts talking about, I dunno, Czechoslovakians and how they live on German land or some crap, I wasn't really listening. However... uh-oh. My uncle D is also in the garden.
I don't like uncle D. He's really not a nice person. Well, to be fair: he's a shitsmear. He lives with my grandma. I repeat: he is not a nice person. He's the sort of person who sits in the corner and makes inane derogatory remarks about anything. Oh yes, and there's the snide, underhand insults. Gotta love the snide, underhand insults. People just ignore him, really, because he's just the sort of person who wants attention, but is too dull to get it any other way than by trying to be an offensive little cuntsnot. He's also a bit weird, and isolated. I think he's isolated 'cos he's an asshole, and weird 'cos he's isolated. I mean, christ, he's a man in his late 40s who still lives with his mother. He doesn't have a girlfriend. He's probably never had a girlfriend. I don't think that he likes women much.
Someone pissed in my gene pool, I swear to god.
Time passes. Grandma is like, 'blah blah ethnic minorities blah blah Horst Wessel Lied blah my pussy hurts', whilst uncle D makes noises and drools on himself. My parents smile and nod, smile, nod, nod, smile. I consider sterilizing myself for the sake of eugenics. After a while, I turn my brain off. The dog comes over now and then to sniff my clothing. I decide to watch the dog. The dog wanders over to uncle D. Uncle D torments the dog a bit, to play with him. The dog gets excited. The dog gets very excited. The dog starts to hump uncle D's arm. Ok, dogs do that. The dog humps uncle D's arm quite a bit. Most people would have, I think, told the dog to stop it by now. In fact, I doubt they'd be encouraging it, which is what... uncle D seems to be doing. Yes. He sounds a bit too happy about it for my comfort. And... oh god, what is he doing with his hand?
WHAT IS HE DOING WITH HIS HAND?
While this is going on, my parents and my grandma continue to converse (blah blah jews etc.), ignoring him. Most people ignore uncle D, after all.
But he's WANKING A DOG.
For a moment, it's as if I've slipped in to some kind of bizarro world, where dog wanking is perfectly acceptable. Or, worse, I've finally gone insane, and I'm hallucinating it. In fact, I think that the fear of the latter scenario is the only thing which stops me from screaming, 'UNCLE D IS WANKING A DOG, JESUS CHRIST, THERE IS NO GOD.'
He really is wanking the dog, too.
After what feels like an eternity (it can't have been longer than 2 minutes), the dog dismounts.
Ok. Thank god. It's over. I can gouge out my own eyeballs later, I figure.
Then IT STARTS HAPPENING AGAIN. I avert my eyes from gyrating dog hips and silently cry inside.
I sit in silence for the rest of the visit and try to think of rainbows and flowers and grassy meadows full of butterflies.
Eventually, we leave. As soon as we're in the car and out of my grandma's earshot, I wait for my parents to comment on it. I wait. And wait. Until I can wait no longer. And I shout, 'UNCLE D WAS WANKING THE DOG.'
My parents, both of whom are fairly uptight folks, look at me. 'I was, uh, wondering what he was doing,' my dad says. My mum tells me that she deliberately averted her eyes. We talk about it for the rest of the journey home, and laugh nervously.
Then we stop talking about it. I doubt that we will ever talk about it again.
I know this story seems unlikely. I don't care. I needed to write it as a kind of catharsis.