There was ZERO CHANCE that we could leave for Cape Cod vacation without tying up my sister’s imaginary pony to the roof of the Packard.
My brother would lay in front of the car if we did not make room for his imaginary friend Charlie Gomez in the middle back.
And you wonder why I am mentally ill?
But here is the problem with my sister. She is now 70 years old and still thinks the pony is real.
“Hey, Nan, remember the phony pony?”
“What do you mean by ‘phony’, Greg? Millhous is out in the yard.”
I realize the insensitivity of my statement, and immediately correct my understanding of the ‘alternative pony facts’.
Just think of the expense! Trillions of imaginary carrots, hay, sugar cubes, and pony liniment.. I priced this stuff on Amazon, and it ain’t cheap.
So, me, being the long haul reflective type, started connecting the dots.
Sis is a level ten Trumper….1956 type white Christians can move next door any time…but if you were a bit bronzed from sun exposure, then don’t even THINK of getting off that plane at JFK.
All phone communication with my sister today is mostly imaginary…the calls we do have usually are abruptly ended when I ask if it is true that John McCain is not a war hero. Or if a big lump like me should be able to take a four year old Syrian child’s evacuation seat on the boat to freedom.
Click. Click. Click.
And God forbid that I even suggest that Millionaire Joel Osteen or Guns a blazin’ Jerry Falwell Jr. whisper a concern over the ‘Christian treatment’ of refugees. But hey! baby…keep pumping those twenties into the vacuums located at every other seat in their fifty thousand seat stadiums.
It is at that point that she sends special Godly death rays to my android phone, singeing off my eyebrows.
Without the love of family…
what do we have?