Asshat-Or, Loosen Up Your Velcro Shoes Because Your Brain Needs Oxygen

Before I plunge into this exciting post, I must, at the very least, offer one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, credit for the word, "asshat." No, I know she didn't make it up and there is no trademark etc, but she uses it pretty freely in her last book, so I am giving credit where credit is due. I know she won't be reading this, damn it, but one can always dream. Just an FYI, her last books is great.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I received a particularly startling and rather disturbing email last night. It was sent via Ancestry.com. I have semi-legitmately used this site to search for family members and family history. A little background, my maiden name was, Scuka, pronounced Sue Ka. Obviously, not too easy. In school, whenever I entered a new grade or class, I would cringe waiting for the butchering of my last name. Eventually, I would just bark it out, probably rudely, but since I have heard all kinds of weird pronounciations, I figured I would clear it up right away. I have found some Scuka's on this website, but I am not so immersed that it clouds my mind.

This is the email I received. "My father was Clayton Leon Scuka. We may be related. Do you need further information? Give me a call if I can help." Sounds pretty secretive, doesn't it? Almost like he has discovered some family treasure or something. I was startled and then began to convulse with laughter! Yes, I know Clayton Scuka, pretty well, actually. He was my grandfather. He used to take me out on his bass boat, let me drink his beer, which I have previously mentioned, as well as letting me have cream soda, a little less lethal than all the beer I drank.

So, who did this email come from? My uncle. Mind you, he lives in Augusta, just a stone's throw from Wichita, yet obviously many moons from here. One wonders how the gene pool has not arranged for a quicker elimination?!?!

At 60 something years of age, he still wears velcro closure tennis shoes, or maybe I should call them tennies for his sake. He is just plain odd. I don't know how he was growing up, and am afraid to even ask. I know how he is now and that is pretty scary. I used to work with him at the prison in El Dorado. When I was interviewed, I had to tell them that I had a relative that worked there. I didn't want to tell them, but they asked. Once the cat was out of the bag, the interviewers just stared at me like I was an idiot. Then, they laughed it off and stated that they were sure I would be fine. Uh-oh.

So, how did I respond to this peculiar email? Well, it was a toss up as to whether I would be a smart ass, which I thought could be really interesting, or be nice, and just say, yes, we are related. What I ultimately settled on was, "Yes, you are correct, we are related. You are my uncle." I'm still not sure as to if he knows it is me. He probably isn't sure either. What an asshat.