After walking around in the park downtown, me and my parents went to a nearby bar to hang out with my one friend who's a prof of modern Czech literature, who happened to be there with a friend, a TV comedy screenwriter in visiting from New York.
After a round of introductions, it came out that the comedy writer supported the White Sox while my parents supported the Tigers, but he still bought an opening round of drinks anyways.
"To the Tigers," my mom said, after everyone clinked their glasses.
The comedy writer was very much like one of my parents' Baby Boomer friends and told endless anecdotes, like about a friend of a friend who went to this very cold Bears game and decided to piss himself to warm up and just let his bladder loose and soaked his pants, which warmed him up a ton - until his piss froze all over him.
He was also talking a lot about going to visit his father out in Joliet, a phrase he said several times.
"Geez, [the comedy writer's first name]," my mom was like, "The way you say that, I keep thinking your dad is in prison!".
The comedy writer bitched about his stepmother a lot too, this old uncomfortable woman with an annoying voice who waited on his dad hand-and-foot but followed him around all day.
"What you doing?", she had asked his dad the last time he was visiting, as his dad inserted two pieces of bread into a toaster and she leaned over to look at the bread real close.
"For Christ's sake," he was like, "What the hell did she think he was doing? He was only putting two pieces of bread in a fucking toaster."
"You know, [the comedy writer's first name]," my dad told him, "Old women fall down stairs all the time, whaddya say, I'll come help you out."
. . .
Later that night, my parents reflected on what a fun time that several hour conversation was.
"I'm not sure [my dad's first name] should have offered to kill [the comedy writer's] stepmom, though," my mom was like. "That was a little much."
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