This is an assignment I did in writer's craft class for the satire and sarcasm unit. It satirically describes a sort of family reunion stereotype.
Don’t you love family reunions? They allow you to visit the whole cast of characters that somehow contributed to your genetic makeup. Your parents’ chatter of mingling with relatives you’ve not had the imponderable joy of seeing for a long time, the gift they’ll have to give little Johnny for his missed birthday, the painfully long hours they will spend trying to decide what type of food substance to bring, all will triumphantly succeed in muffling the not-quite-annoyingly sensible little voice in your head screaming “Nooooooo!!!!” Only of course, if you haven’t already fainted in ecstasy with the utterance of the formidable words “family reunion.” You know that your half-hearted excuses of homework and due dates and expected calls could never keep you away. Even your own death wouldn’t be enough to let you escape; it would merely be another reason for everyone to come together. And so the drive of anticipation begins, leading you to your final destination where you will have to confront the faces that have been stretched and deformed by hungry smiles. Aren’t you so proud to know that somehow this impossibly large collection of caring people have somehow managed to share your blood? There’s your aunt Marge, who thoughtfully pinches some colour back into your cheeks, which, by her calculations, have become much too pale in her absence, possibly a side effect of your earlier loss of consciousness. Then there’s your uncle George, who is always sure to educate you on the dangers of alcohol whilst slipping a bottle covertly into the hidden folds of his backpack under the table. Your grandfather/great uncle/ ancient third cousin/relation of you-have-no-idea promptly passes out from exhaustion in a corner somewhere upon his arrival, muttering hasty greetings to anyone who happens to place themselves between him and a chair. Don’t forget all your ten-and-under cousins, who instantly decide it’s playtime at any mention of mud, a stick, or a ball, any or all of which are ready to be launched at the innocent older cousin like a projectile of imminent injury. And of course, the myriad of people who recognize you on sight, who wave enthusiastically for you to join them while you wave back with a forced smile, thinking, “How do I know you?” After the hordes of relatives have moved on to another victim, you decide to peruse the appetizers, where you come across some salads. But these aren’t normal Caesar or Greek salads, oh no. These are monstrosities of mismatched, unknown ingredients of questionable origin that have been tossed together to bring colour and artistic creativity to the table, that for all you know are the desecrated remains of a home-cooking experiment gone horribly wrong. When the limitless crowds of people have ceased to pour in and the cacophonous children have finished poking and torturing every small animal and/or relative in their paths, it’s time to eat. You instinctively drop to the back of the line-up for delicious food, anxious to avoid being trampled into an unsavory pile of broken limbs and unidentifiable goo by the mad dinner rush, only to find upon finally arriving at the dessert table that your aunt’s spice cake you were keen to try has been reduced to lifeless crumbs and globs of sticky icing by the train of relatives who obviously don’t need the calories, but must have made the sacrifice trying to save you from some unthinkable fate of bad health. Those loving relatives! Eventually you are left to your own devices, expected to maybe wander off and play with the impish little kids who threaten the lawn with their stampeding feet, or help with the cleanup duty alongside your great-aunt, who is already busy critically analyzing every physical detail of everyone at the party, and shamelessly suggesting improvements to those she finds inadequate. Instead, you find yourself sitting with a glazed expression for the rest of the event next to the earlier mentioned sleeping old man, twiddling your thumbs and being provided with hours of entertainment watching the slow progress of drool sliding slowly down his face while he snores unconcernedly with whistles and snorts.