Pure Taboo The Bad Uncle

Pure Taboo The Bad Uncle
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Pure Taboo (TV Series)

The Bad Uncle
(2017)

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Features

Nov 24, 2005 at 4:00 am

Uncles Are a Dying Breed. On Thanksgiving, Pause to Remember Your Uncles

Don't Measure Your Penis for Your Uncle
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Today's male siblings—brothers, they're called—are tomorrow's uncles. But Americans are having ever-smaller families. Most couples aspire to have one child, maybe two. So the uncle—that non-authority figure, that often drunk, childish, pseudo adult—is going extinct.
Growing up I had a dozen uncles by blood and marriage. My kid only has three uncles. When my son is an adult, he will likely marry someone who is also an only child, and their children—or their only child—won't have any uncles at all.
So it is only fitting that we pause on Thanksgiving to remember our uncles—good, bad, drunk, sober, morose, helpful, molestful, homicidal—because it was the one day a year when you could count on seeing your uncles. But soon we will live in a world without uncles, so it's important that we write down our uncle stories now, while we still can, while uncles still walk the earth. DAN SAVAGE
My father's brother, Uncle Chuck, was a man apart: apart from hygiene, apart from manners, apart from any social life outside of his addiction to dog-track racing and the creepy world of the United States Postal Service, where he worked. A confirmed bachelor, Chuck haunted our family holidays like a ghost wrapped in a foul-smelling, beige cloth.
Thanksgiving always seemed like the biggest holiday for Uncle Chuck: He would sit on our couch, which my mother would cover with a clean bed sheet before he arrived in order to save the furniture from his ripe and, at times, fungal smell. He would drink beer after beer, trying to egg my father on in matters of politics and religion. The football games would go on and on, and there Chuck would sit, beer in hand, irritating everyone, refusing to leave.
I remember my mother explaining the new plan to me, on a bright Thanksgiving morning when I was 5, and I remember Operation: Get Rid of Chuck kicking into action: at 8:00 p.m. sharp, we all retired to our bedrooms and put on pajamas, pretending that it was our bedtime. After my father had turned out the lights, Chuck felt awkward enough that he left. Then we all padded back into the living room, turned the lights back on, and watched TV until 11:00 p.m. or so, reflecting on the gaffes Chuck committed this year. It seemed to work, and though we never, ever discussed the plan again, we kept it up annually.
The last time this happened, I was 10, and, as Chuck had just left, we were watching the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Special , and someone, I think it was Linus, said something about Thanksgiving being about traditions. I looked at my mother and father, sitting on the couch, which had been stripped of the bed sheet but still smelled strongly of Uncle Chuck, and said, "Is pretending to go to bed so Chuck will leave one of our Thanksgiving traditions?" Every year after that, my father would just tell Chuck when he thought it was time he'd best be heading out. That seemed to work just as well. PAUL CONSTANT
Mom always brought it up just as I was about to leave for a sleepover. She would allude to what happened to her, back when she was a kid, back when she'd slept over at her cousin's house.
The story—as I've pieced it together—is this: Mom crawled into her cousin's bed and fell asleep. A few hours later, she awoke to find her uncle staring at her, crouched beside the bed, his hand beneath the sheets. Her cousin woke up, locked eyes with her father, and told him—in a way that made it seem like she'd been through this before—to knock it off. Mom's uncle sauntered out of the room.
Mom never told us what happened under the sheets, or if he tried anything the next time she slept over. Mom did tell us that she ratted him out to her own mother, who slapped her and told her not to repeat the story. Her mother—my grandmother—sent her back to sleep over at the cousin's house many more times. Mom never forgave her for that, she told me the day after her uncle died, explaining why she'd refused to go to the funeral. My own uncle—Mom's little brother—had just knocked on our front door, imploring her to attend. Mom slammed the door in his face, and didn't speak to anyone in the family for weeks.
But Mom didn't need to divulge details of that night in her cousin's bed to drive her "uncles are not to be trusted" message into my brain. All she needed to do was raise her eyebrows when I'd come home from a sleepover at my own cousin's house. Worse, she'd put me through the third degree after babysitting a little cousin in a distant suburb. Under Mom's uncle-scrutiny, I started to believe that if I wasn't on guard, one of my otherwise wonderful uncles—the guys who taught me how to fish, play poker, swear, and hit a baseball—would do something creepy. If I found myself alone in a room with an uncle, I made sure I was a few yards away—a touch-proof distance. I avoided uncle hugs. I had a tough time falling asleep at sleepovers, until I could hear my uncle snoring in another room.
Being paranoid around my own family sucked. I'm not sure what my Mom's uncle did to her but he might as well have molested me, too. ANONYMOUS
We had no choice. Clearwater stood squarely between us and getting out of Florida, and on a road trip, you can't pass within 350 miles of relatives without stopping by. It's a rule.
Consequently, Liz and I found ourselves being quizzed on our educations by my step-uncle Jim. At the mention of my philosophy degree, Jim's eyes lit up. He leaned across the table, took my hands, and said, "Oh, so you love knowledge? You want to understand the world!"
Over dinner, Jim and Patty invited us to an "event." Liz and I exchanged nervous glances. "What kind of event?" I asked. "I think you'll be very interested," they told us. "It's only for a few hours."
At the Scientology center, we were given a tour, and then led into a small classroom. As
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