My parents and I walk in to the house and see my sister sitting on the table next to an open jar of pickles.
Her legs are open as if stirrups were holding them up, pickle affixed in the unholiest of holies.
Stunned, we tried to play it off with some small talk.
Sister silent, I mumbled, "Sweet pickles are, uh, good..."
My father retorted, "How 'bout dat dill doe?" (sic)
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