You know, Bamford, as we draw near to Uncle Chucky’s birthday, one gets nostalgic. Not in that bloated, heavy way that sets in after the sixth course, but in the wispy, wafty style, that drifts so gently over after the eighth snifter of port. Let me now elucidate you, and, through you, our guests.
The Buckford-Westington name is bound up in the web of time, and pulls the whole thing down with the weight of its honor (take that, time!). We have no “official” governmental coat of arms anymore, but what was taken from us by various war crimes tribunals has been made up for in gumption, glitz and glamour. Our love of family is the only coat we need, and it’s a warm one. Threadbare and moth-eaten, perhaps, with a few unpaid debts in its past and the faint, musky smell of scandal about the elbows, but certainly cozy enough to help us make it through the winters. (We spend most winters barricaded inside our mansion against the cold, so this is hardly a tall order, but do allow me my allusions.)
And good old Chucky’s birthday, so impending as it is, serves as a reminder of that love that we all share for one another. Oh, sure, we may not see each other as much as we would like. And, yes, there does tend to be an argument or five whenever we’re together. And, okay, Bamford, FINE, it may be the case that none of us have actually had much contact with Chucky in the last, I don’t know, decade or so, except through his lawyer, as all we inquired very tactfully about the state and contents of Chucky’s will (inquiries which, I might just add here, were always quite rudely and aggressively rebuffed). But what I’m saying, in the larger sense, the grander, nicer, richer sense of it all, Bamford, is that our Uncle Chucky is our family, and gondormit, family’s what matters. We may have had our differences, our turf wars, our petty felonies from time to time, but the name stands.
I mean, just look at these fine, upstanding attendees. They’ve RSVP’d, not just with their stationary, but with their hearts, and I for one can’t wait to see them. I’m sure that Chucky can’t wait, either, as he sits, all tucked away in his far wing of the house, staring into space and probably listening to folk tunes, or some such thing. He’s old and Irish, isn’t he? How do I know what he gets up to? The important thing is, less than a month from now, we’ll be together, all in one room, with all our friends, and Chucky’s friends, as well, I mean, presumably, one has to think. He never sent us down a guest list, despite my really quite seriously intending to ask him for one months ago. I’m sure they’ve gotten word by now. I’m sure they’re coming. I’m sure they’re lovely! They’ll fit right in, I just know it.
Because we Buckford-Westingtons are nothing if not welcoming. And in a scant matter of weeks, we’ll be welcoming all comers, to celebrate the life and times of a man who…well, epitomizes our family’s name. Even if he hasn’t used it in a while. Or been heard from. Or ever given any indication that he thinks about us, ever…
Pah. What matters is, he’s rich. And if you’re monied, you’re a B-W, eh, Bamford? Eh? Eh? That’s probably why you feel so out of place all of the time. Got to make your first million in these computatron bamboozles. Then you’ll feel right at home.
See you at the party!