He was lactose intolerant, allergic to wheat, had a gluten sensitivity and hypoglycemic, but Smithers Glenmorangie had been eating whatever he wanted for the last three days.
“It’s Christmas and I’m flying first class!” he announced as he arrived at the family dinner. And while that expression makes no sense, this was part of Smithers’ charm. He always made up his own expressions, or used well-known expressions awkwardly.
Secondly, his volume as he arrived indicated that he was already halfway through the box of red Niagara wine he was carrying.
“You didn’t drive here, did you?” asked his mom, giving him a big hug. And while Smithers was a loveable idiot, he wasn’t a jackass. “Nope! Walked!” and he pointed at the removable crampons he had attached to his boots.
“Drinking box wine, are ya?” asked his cousin Frank. “I thought you were allergic?”
“Not to wine. To alcohol,” chortled Smithers, pouring himself a tall glass, and one for Frank. “And tannins. But it’s Christmas and I’m set to goose the ministry if you smell what I’m cooking!”
Rum balls? “I’ll buy those for a dollar!”
Cheese tray? “Curiosity killed the cat!”
Sugar cookies? “Mr. Gorbachov! Throw down that wall!”
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Whole-wheat dinner roll? “That’s what SHE said!”
Did he want extra gravy? “Feets don’t fail me now!”
Fried chicken? “HEY MACARENA!”
And while he thought he was getting away with it, absolutely everybody at the dinner party knew that he was dropping not-so-silent-but-deadly bombs and simply moving to another area in the house, hoping someone else was getting blamed.
After dinner, when he and his cousin decided to go out for a smoke, he happened to pass – literally and figuratively – too close to the open flame of a candle near the front door.
Several children playing in the front parlour were knocked to their feet as he was blown across the street.
“KHAAAAAN!” he hollered as he landed in the flatbed of passing pickup truck.
