I've lost sleep over the last few years, staring at the ceiling, constructing cruelly concise things I'd like to say to my Uncle Kenny. But when I saw him, briefly, this weekend, I chose to mostly say nothing.

He went largely unseen during the day, finally creeping out of the barn with a case of MGD.

Kenny: Beer?
Arnie: No thanks. It's a little early for me.
Kenny: Early? It must be five o'clock somewhere.

In truth, it wasn't unreasonably early for a beer but I went inside.

I think my mom was nervous about dealing with Kenny the Bully, but I didn't want to see Kenny the Glad Hander. I would have rather seen the Bully. I had things to say to the Bully.

I watched out the window as he showed a chicken to my nephews. I remembered being a kid and how he would butcher rabbits in front of us and laugh at how unsettled it made us. Normal farm stuff, I guess, but even as a kid, it seemed to me like a show of superiority.

A while back, Mom told Sherry and I that she remembered once when she was little, Kenny cut a live bird's chest open so he could see its heart beat.

Me: Yikes. That's something a serial killer would do.
Sherry: That's the first sign.
Mom: Don't say that. Now I'll have nightmares of Kenny as a serial killer.

I took this picture out the farmhouse window of Kenny and the chicken and a manure spattered dog.

Mom: Kenny tried talking to me. Tried to act all buddy buddy. He told me he'd named the chicken Doris. Real funny.
Me: Maybe it's not meant to be named after you. Maybe it's named after his wife.
Mom: I just came inside. I don't have to stand around and pretend his jokes are funny.