I wonder which relative could have me audited?

Last night we had our end of the year department party at one of the teacher's houses. It's the only party that makes sense, unlike those school wide jobs where I'm in the cafeteria, breaking my plastic fork on some brisket, asking the biology teacher what she taught.

Like I said, I like our parties. There's a real camaraderie. We're like a bunch of soldiers in a foxhole on Christmas Day. But of course the war has to start up again. The first shot came in the form of a doorbell. Now, Pécan isn't technically invited to these things, but it's not like you can say no to your boss. But it wasn't Pécan. He didn't show. Like all good royalty, he sent an emissary. He sent his son. You would think he would send an associate principal, a counselor, someone from the freakin' janitorial staff and not the assistant night manager of a Blockbuster Video. I guess he was sticking with that royalty theme by sending a blood heir.

It got worse. Things went from awkward when the son walked in, to down right nerve racking. The first thing our guest said was, "Stay on your toes people, I could have any one of you fired!" The only thing that broke us from our frozen states was his guffaw followed by one of those "Just kidding... or am I?" pulled punches on the poor soul that was the closest to him--me.

I knew he wasn't being malicious. He just lacked social skills. He was a pawn in his father's diabolical mind control attempts. He was sent as a reminder that Pécan can reach us at anytime, at anyplace. Or, Pécan could be just as clueless his equally clueless spawn and just didn't think or know better. Oh, I don't know.

What I do know is that having a bunch of teachers' livelihoods threatened will sure drain the alcohol out of room.