Cookout etiquette for Savages

I can't lie to you, the summer months are always tough for a brother. The favorable weather conditions always put an unwanted spotlight on my reclusive nature, forcing me to make impromptu guest appearances like a major motion picture star during sweeps week. The oppressive heat turns pedestrian chores like cutting the grass into weekly altercations with my toughest nemesis. Routine courting rituals in search of the vaginal promised land, like romantic walks or catching an outdoor concert - become necessary evils during the summer months. Also, not for nothing, the season when I'm most likely to show off my Popeye sized calves and a tattoo that I thoroughly regret makes it extremely challenging for me to pull off my patented "Bill Belichick" sexual maneuver.(Clumsily fucking a woman while wearing a sweatshirt) But what I really hate about summer, from the precise moment that inept tong wielders everywhere break out their barbecue grills and throw on cliched "kiss the cook" aprons, is that it reminds me of my deceased father.

My old man, for all the shit I've posthumously given him on this blog, had a bevy of talents. Cooking barbecue was one of them. I still remember how he'd start grilling super early, systematically bringing the finished product into the house, and how that beautiful smell would wake you out of the deepest slumber. The incessant snacking on his culinary works of art all day were a foregone conclusion, so much so that my mother stopped giving her "you'll ruin your dinner" diatribes sometime in the late 70's. I've never flirted with Islam, but if I ever did I'm sure spiritual enlightenment and one day pilgrimages to Mecca would have been forcefully trumped by the blissful mastication of my father's grilled swine drenched in barbecue sauce. Some of our brave veterans have vivid flashbacks of some precarious firefight they once found themselves in. Many of us daydream about that one love we carelessly let slip through our fingers. Not for nothing, but when I'm not thinking of sex that involves receipts and inept rappers who I want to mercilessly curb-stomp, most of my day is spent thinking about my father's barbecue and my Keystone Cops-like inability to recreate it.

Unfortunately, not only has the sub par cook-outs that I've attended every summer since my father death(2001) reminded me of the best barbecue that I've ever eaten - it has also brings to mind some of the more unsavory traits these sort of shindigs expose in folks. Here is some etiquette advice for all you motherfucking savages out there.

Bring a friend, not a fucking entourage: What was weird about my old man was that for as much of a hard ass he was, he'd routinely let his friends get away with triple homicides in his presence. I can understand being invited to a cookout and bringing a person or two, but it always seemed like these uncouth knuckle-draggers rented a church van, crammed it to the hilt with as many like-minded people with an an agenda of greed that they could find, and headed straight to our place to happily eat us out of house and home. I attended a friend's cookout recently where someone had no problem violating the aforementioned hell-worthy trespass, with reckless abandon I may add. So I took it upon myself to put those crumb-snatchers to work, making them go on beer runs and such, then helping clean up afterwords. They were going to earn their meal that day. Again, bringing a person or two is fine - but any more than that is unacceptable. At least call the host first to see if its alright.

What you bring becomes community property: How many times have you seen a person bring something to a cookout, lets say a 24 pack of beer, and then try to take the remaining cans of beer home with them when the shindig comes to a close? Sorry, but that is straight up savagery my friend. Once you bring anything to a cookout, unless its something in a fancy schmancy dish that you understandably aren't trying to part with, it is no longer yours you fucking savage. (Unless the host insist that you take what's left back to your place of residence) I really don't see why this is so difficult for some folks to understand.

For Christs sake, cover that shit up: The worst feeling in the world is going to a friend's cook-out completely famished, ready to take a bite out of a live horse if its seasoned right, only to find every dish fly infested because the neanderthal of a host failed to simply cover it up. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this, feeling the need to put on a fucking bee keeper suit just to walk by the plates of neglect simply because most people didn't grow up in the same sort of germ conscious family that I did. Desperately hoping that the contents of the nearby keg will successfully subdue my appetite. Cover the food up you fucking caveman, it isn't that difficult.

Only if the Host says its OK: Similar to the "community property" example, the only time its acceptable to take a plate of goodies home with you is when the host insists. That's it folks. Every time I see some unsavory bottom feeder cavalierly stacking their plate like a carnivore's version of "Jenga", I want to walk over and punch the offender dead in the throat. You'd think that people had better sense than that, but unfortunately they don't - my otherwise faulty memory bank is filled with 30 years of vivid instances of people proverbially wiping their ass with someone's hospitality. If the host doesn't suggest that you take some food home with you, keep your grubby little hands to yourself. You goddamn savage.