My dad used to say that my uncle Randy had a dial-up brain in a fiber optic world; I never thought that was fair.

Uncle Randy was dumber than that.

Dial-up connections were slow but they still provided you access to the limitless knowledge of the internet—the information superhighway was at your finger tips, you were just perpetually stuck in the right lane.

Uncle Randy, meanwhile, would be best characterized as a hitchhiker walking backwards down the middle lane of said superhighway, grinning with his thumbs up as the rest of us swerved around him (and I should be clear, this isn’t exactly a metaphor, uncle Randy actually was known to hitchhike by walking backwards down the middle of the highway—at least until some kindly truck driver disabused him of that notion).

While he was as thick as a cup of molasses, he was just as sweet. I remember one Thanksgiving I’d come home from college and Uncle Randy was the first to tell me he was so glad to have me home and that he was proud to be talking to the first man in our family to go to college. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was not the first and that not only had my dad gone to college, but so had grandpa Bart and my two older cousins who stood not five feet away from us shaking their heads.

Still, it was nice to be appreciated.

That Thanksgiving Uncle Randy, sweet man that he was, made sure to make room for me at the grown-up table. It was a big step for me. I got to listen on as the adults debated politics, religion and the like—you know, kitchen table issues. I sat there as my Grandpa and Dad debated the most recent Presidential scandal. I don’t remember what they said, because I wasn’t listening to them.

I was watching Uncle Randy.

He looked like a man sitting at the center line of a tennis match, his head bobbing between the head and foot of the table as Dad and Grandpa volleyed their respective generational ideals. Meanwhile I swear I could practically hear the squawk of the dial tone whirring inside Uncle Randy’s head. He was clearly thinking long and hard about something. Knowing Randy if he ever formulated his thought, whatever was going to come out was going to be a doozy.

Finally, success. He opened his mouth in that slack-jaw way he did just before he was going to drop some hard-earned insight. I swear I heard the words, “you’ve got mail,” echo from his mouth before he spoke.

“Now, Pops, Marv,” Uncle Randy began, “hold on a minute. I got a question.”

The cousins and I shared a look. My mom chuckled to herself as she upturned her wine glass. The whole table was thinking the same thing. This is gonna be good.

“Well, get on with it then,” said Grandpa impatiently.

“Well, I was just thinkin’,” Uncle Randy said rubbing his chin, ”wouldn’t cinnamon make more sense?”

Grandpa and Dad looked at each other with puzzled expressions. My mom nearly spit her wine on the table as she busted up laughing.

“Oh Randy, you’re too much,” Mom shouted as she slapped her knee.

Uncle Randy just looked at her confused. “Nah, I mean it Mary. You know as well as me that peach and mint ain’t gonna taste good together. I figure they outta mix some cinnamon in for good measure.”

Grandpa, figuring out what Uncle Randy meant simply turned to Grandma and said, “Where did we go wrong with this boy, Charlotte?”

“Oh be nice, Bart,” Grandma replied.

“No, I mean it! He thinks impeachment is a goddamn dessert. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“Well, to be fair,” I said, “it would be pretty sweet!”

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