The potential boyfriend has made the leap from conjugal frivolity to serious "gay lover" and now must Meet the Parents.
Like a wacky Ben Stiller touchstone, the downhome visit dissolves into a series of sitcommy hijinks, with all that's missing is the painfully canned laughter.
We're in the backseat of my parents' Volvo (Volvo?! My parents are Ford pickup men. They do anything Toby Keith tells them), and I keep making not-so-subtle gestures such as groping him in the backseat while my parents natter on about the new Applebee's.
"Have you tried their chicken fried chicken?" my Mom asks Dad while I fondle PB. "It's literally to die for. In fact, I'd kill someone for it."
We're now in the parking lot of the United Methodist Church, and Dad is having trouble parking the Volvo. In fact, he goes into a space lopsided.
"You're doing it all wrong," my sister tells Dad as I continue to prod PB's gonads.
"I know what I'm doing," my Dad says all belligerent, puffing his cheeks like Bill O' Reilly. "I've been driving for 40 years!"
My sister gets out of the Volvo and begins directing Dad into the parking space. He's not amused.
The whole time this is going on, I'm still poking PB's balls. "Maybe after they're done, we can get tacos," I tell him.