Just A Pop Over

Peter, the b'day bro', forced to wear silliness by his silly sister

The SJG got a little worried when a big clump of very friendly people arrived at the bro's b'day bash.  There was much hugging, much, "Oh my God, I haven't seen you in ages!  You look smashing!"  Some of them had British accents, some of them didn't.  There was a son of a Brit and his wife.  There was a second husband of another Brit.  Names came and went and recombined in a big blur.  "This is FraDebiAdaTasha-RamaLamaDingDong."  "Hi, everyone," I said, and slipped away.  I'm all about the seating, all about the food.  I started pulling out more chairs and worrying there wasn't enough food.  If the SJG isn't worrying about something, I cease to exist.  "Psst.  Over here." I beckoned the b'day bro' over yonder.  "Who the eff are all those people?" "Oh, that's FraDebiAdaTashaRama --" "Never mind."  Turned out, the big very friendly clump only wanted to snack a bit on cheese and crackers.  They were headed somewhere else for dinner.  "You're going?" I said, disappointed.  I'd reconfigured the seating, I'd counted fried chicken wings and drumsticks.  No worries.  I had plenty of food!  "It was just a pop over," one of the lovely Brits said.  "Well, I'm glad you popped by." The party was a success, or so I'm told.  If it had sucked, I would have heard about it from one of my sons.  Things got a little ass-backwards during the b'day cake portion of the evening.  Peter blew out the candles and then we sang him "Happy Birthday."  Of course, the highlight was a literary discussion led by my father, who reads a new book on his iPad every two days, based mainly on the price.  "It only cost 99 cents," he tells me, every two days.  He's even read "Fifty Shades of Grey," a book I couldn't read more than 20 pages of without screaming about its awfulness.  "Daddy!  How could you read that book!  It's terrible," I said.  "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."  "And?"  Here he uttered a classic line that will be repeated by generations to come, a line so hysterical, so unexpected, that Scotty immediately posted it on Facebook:  "It's all about f**king."