Uncle Jerry downed a tumbler of five dollar scotch. He would tell the family that the cheap stuff wasn't any different than the top shelf booze, but he knew it was. It was all he could afford. He would work ten hours a day and come home to his wife, who never spoke to him, and cooked his own TV dinner. It was in the soft glow of the microwave, dressed in his boxer shorts, that he secretly wished that he would die then and there. He longed for it. Then the microwave dinged and he got his chicken pot pie and carefully removed the film. If he'd showed that kind of care and tenderness with his wife, maybe she wouldn't be in her bedroom -- they hadn't slept in the same room in five years -- talking to a man on the internet with the username DonkeyD!ckMan69. Maybe he deserved to be cucked, the thought as he ate the lukewarm turkey and gravy with his hands. Maybe he deserved this hell he had made?
"Look," he bellowed to the rest of the family. "All I'm saying is why can't we have a White History Month?!"