How to Tell Your Closest Family Members They Need to Clean Their “Member”
We’ve all been there. Christmas Eve at your grandparents house, after sharing a bountiful meal of turkey pudding and frogged potatoes, Uncle Jerry Seinfeld begins to complain about how hot it is in the dining room. A few at the table agree, and you look around to gage how everyone is feeling. Beads of sweat are dripping off every forehead you can see. The table has gone through 17 and a half pitchers of water (sparkling water, you know that shit costed a fortune, your rich ass family couldn’t give two shits). You look at the head of table, Grandpa is dead, and has been for quite some time. Finally, someone decides to do something.
Your eldest cousin, Rick Sanchez-Gomey Dog-Stuff, finally gets up and walks over to the window, but upon further inspection, discovers that it’s one of those windows that only opens from the bottom, like the very bottom, and it’s one of those that start at the floor and go all the way up to the ceiling, twin tower style. He reaches down, and the window opens with a burst of cold air flooding into the room. However, at some point between being outside and coming into your nostrils, the cold air passes vigorously between your cousin’s legs, and is infected with a stark, tinging scent. That scent enters your nostrils like a neti-pot filled with razor blades. You know exactly what it is. There’s no sugar coating it.
It’s your eldest cousin’s unwashed genitals.
You, being the kind and caring family member you are, pride yourself on helping the people you love when something is wrong. You don’t go overboard; however, and you always follow the well-known rule of “If they can’t fix it in ten seconds, don’t point it out’’. There are obviously a few things that don’t fit into this category, including acne, body fat, chipmunk lips, ‘roid-stomach, loose-cooch, wrinkled pink, Shrek-neck, dog-breath, needle-fingers, jaundice, jaundat, hooper farts, athlete’s foot, dumbo ears, jauntop, John Oliver, stripper nose, mistle toes, you get the point.
The things that are quick and easy to fix (and therefore fair game to point out) include booger farts, loose ties, fly down, nut out, chief keef, salsa stain, Kurt Cobain, crazy train, small tits, log dick, body fat, jaundice; you understand. Mastering the art of knowing what to point out and what to let slide, is an art in and of itself.
Your cousin’s behavior, though wafting an abhorrent scent your way, is something that would take longer than 10 seconds to fix in most cases. Is it ethical to point out such an unfortunate fact? Or would the fallout of such an acknowledgment lead to the dissolution of your family unit? Should one stand as a person of their own word and the word of Christ Himself (do unto the other guy), or is it better to be a timid soul like Gandhi? How would you even bring up such a conversation? Where would you begin?
How Do You Tell Your Closest Family Members They Need to Clean Their “Member”?
Now, this is an age old question, first posed in 1497 by Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. While on the historical first maritime expedition from Europe to India, da Gama wrote the following in his journal (translated to English):
In this cramped cabin aboard the São Gabriel, midway through our journey to the riches of India, the days stretch into eternity. The crew, God bless ’em, know little of cleanliness, and the ship’s air is thick with their collective scent.
Even my loyal brother, steadfast in duty, carries an unfortunate odor, particularly emanating from his unmentionables. The close quarters leave me little choice but to endure the unmistakable aroma that accompanies his “member.”
Contemplating how to delicately address this matter plagues my thoughts. A discreet note or a well-placed word during our next council may be the only way to spare us all from the discomfort that lingers in this confined space. May Providence guide me in navigating these delicate waters, both on this ship and within my familial ties.
Even in the late 15th century, people were struggling with the same trying predicament. There is just no clear answer on what the best way is to go about it. This is reflected even in the art of the time, which we see da Gama reference. Notice da Gama’s use of “familial ties” in the aforementioned entry journal entry. He goes on to expound on why he chose those words in particular.
As I sit in solitude within the confines of my cabin on the São Gabriel, a peculiar thought occupies my mind — a melody, or rather, a song that has found its way to my ears. It is not of the sea or the distant lands we seek, but a composition…
A shanty my crew learned while on a supply stop on a small island a few weeks back. The lyrics resonate with me in a way that few have done before: “Smokin’ on top fives. Motherfuck that album, fuck that single. Burn that hard drive.” Whomever came up with such poignant lyrics, I know not.
If I had to guess, I would say it came from Neptune himself.
While it’s easy to understand why he thought such a shanty came from Neptune, the Roman god of the sea, history tells us otherwise.
These lyrics, discovered by white people in 1987, were etched in the wall of a cave in Bali. The origin of these markings date as far back as 130–160 B.C.E. It is largely thought to have taken place during the Austronesian Migration, which took place over several centuries. During this time, Bali, like many other regions in Southeast Asia, would have been inhabited by indigenous communities with cultural practices that would not have left many records, so the information we have is scarce.
So what do we know?
Nestled deep within the verdant embrace of Bali’s lush landscapes lies a hidden gem that whispers tales of mystery and intrigue — known colloquially as “The Eldora Grotto”. Located in the heart of Bali, this hidden cave remains obscured and largely untouched by those who touch. But don’t be fooled by its warm inviting nature — it’s no easy site to get to.
To embark on the journey to the Eldora Grotto, one must traverse the meandering pathways of Bali’s treacherous hinterlands, where the air is thick like paste and the ethereal sounds of nature jizz through your ears. While recommended, finding a guide is highly difficult, seeing as this site is one of great reverence to the locals. Many, many people have died trying to trek this journey alone. Most of them white. However, say you make it past the steep cliffs and rock bottom jeans, somehow avoiding starvation or suffocation by python, the worst isn’t over yet.
As you approach the entrance, the cave reveals itself as an awe-inspiring portal into a subterranean realm adorned with stalactites that glisten like precious gems. The ambient glow of phosphorescent moss lends an otherworldly ambiance to the depths, creating an atmosphere that transcends the ordinary. You walk in, ready for anything.
While inside the cave you are met with a seemingly endless descent, which tightens like a cornucopia the further down you go. The air becomes cooler and thinner. The ground, slicker and steeper. Sharp stalagmites dice up your path, demanding intention from every step you take. After nearly 800 meters of descent into this beautiful (but truly deadly) cave, you finally approach the site you came to see. Written there on the wet and porous calcite wall, are 852 words of the most hype shit you’ve ever read. You can’t believe your eyes. The stories are real.
Still in disbelief, you continue to move forward with what you came there to do: determine the precise origin of the text and the people who wrote it. This task is not for the faint of heart.
Determining the Origin of An Ancient Inscription Found Deep Inside of a Remote Cavern
You, being an experienced epigrapher, begin the tried and true process of dating the inscription (not that kind of dating, silly! Get your mind out of the bumble). The process; in short, is as follows:
- Photos. You begin by taking out your camera, carefully documenting the inscription through clear photographs. It’s important to get as many pictures as you need, because you would rather not make the journey out here again.
- Documentary Analysis. You would examine the inscription very closely, being sure to make note of every symbol, character, word. You also will want to identify anything particularly peculiar as well, such as inconsistencies, color-changes, ligatures, etc. Again, the more information, the better.
- Script Classification. Compare your findings to other well known writing systems, and determine the linguistic family. Compare and contrast to infer where the inscription is derived from.
- Linguistic Analysis. Analyze the context of the inscription, taking into account grammar, syntax, and structure. Determine if that fits closely with any well known languages.
- Contextual Assessment. Examine the archaeological context surrounding the inscription, such as the material it’s inscribed upon, the location within the cave, the location of the cave relative to the island, etc. Consider the cultural and historical context of the region.
- Technology Utilization. Make use of advanced technologies, such as imaging, photogrammetry, or spectral analysis to enhance visibility and extract more details from the inscription.
After weeks of research, testing, and comparing, some peculiar findings are revealed. Very peculiar findings. So peculiar you can’t believe what you see. While you know in your heart it’s true, you can’t begin to stomach it.
In an effort to calm your mind, you reach out to a trusted colleague. Without revealing your findings, you get them to agree to look over your evidence and come to their own conclusions. They quickly get to work, following a similar but slightly different process.
An Alternative Method of Determining the Origin of An Ancient Inscription Found Deep Inside of a Remote Cavern
Your colleague was born and raised in Edinburg, Scotland, and attended the University of Warwick in Vermont. During their third year, however, they were struck with an unusual and unidentifiable disease which left them bedridden for years. While such circumstances would halt the education of anyone lesser, your colleague hyper fixated on their studies. In spite of their condition, and against all odds, your colleague managed to graduate not only on time but first of their class, scoring top marks in all categories, except physical education, of course. Their work deciphering texts originating from the Minoan Civilization proved to be revolutionary among the epigraphs around the world.
Your colleague, while successful in every regard, couldn’t shake the feeling that they were unworthy of love in any form. Every letter they received, every article posted in every scientific journal, every quote made in every local newspaper praising them, tragically reminded them of their parent’s unrequited admiration. Their father died when they were 9 due to years of alcoholism, and their mother was never much of one.
They were raised by their grandmother, (on their father’s side) for the most part. When they were 14 their grandmother surprising let them drive her truck home from the grocery store. This wasn’t any old truck, either. This was a 1967 Chevrolet C10, a real beautiful truck, and their grandmother’s most prized possession. By allowing your colleague to drive it home, that was more than a simple familial gesture. That was one of immense trust, care, and a relinquishing of ego. Their grandmother wanted them to know just how loved they really are.
“Are you sure you want me to drive this? I don’t know how”, your colleague said, nervously.
“Well, it’s how I learned,” their grandmother replied.
“What if I hit something?”
“You won’t hit something. Get in.”
Their grandmother opened the driver’s side door, and stepped back, welcoming your colleague into the driver’s seat for the first time ever. They climbed in and felt their heart start racing. Their Grandmother shut the door and walked around to the other side. She entered the vehicle and closed the door behind her.
“So… Quick test. What’s the first thing you do when getting into a vehicle?” she asked.
“Buckle up”, they replied.
“That’s right.” Your colleague buckled their seatbelt.
“What’s the second thing you do?”
“Uh — check your mirrors?”
This answer, while not wrong, was not the answer their grandmother was looking for.
“Okay — sure. Then what is the third thing you do?” Their grandmother asks.
“Turn on the truck?”
Again, not the answer their grandmother was looking for.
“If that’s what you think is best.”
“Is that right?”, your colleague asks.
“If that’s what you think is best.”
Their grandmother, while caring and earnest, was too stubborn for her own good. She would rather wait until you fell to tell you about the untied shoelace you tripped over. That’s the way she was raised and that’s the way she raised her kids. When it came to your colleague, it was second nature at this point; a personality trait.
Your colleague started the truck, and pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto the street. Though the roads were cracked and bumpy, that ’67 C10 had best in class suspension — it rode like a dream.
It was only minutes on the road before what was once a good day turned into a disaster.
Despite there being very few cars on the road, your colleague drove with both hands gripping the wheel, white-knuckling it all the way. Their grandmother passive-aggressively stared out the passenger seat window, not focused on what your colleague was doing. She loved this truck, but valued her pride more.
Your colleague began to feel a weird sensation on the back of her left calf. An itch. They tried to resist, knowing that they can’t take their foot away from the pedals, but the itch grew to a tormenting impedance. They couldn’t even focus on the driving the itch became so prevalent.
Maybe just a quick itch wouldn’t hurt, they thought to themselves.
They took their foot off the pedal and swung it around their left calf, scratching up and down. Finally, a semblance of relief.
Your colleague approached a four-way stop. They knew what they needed to do: just hit the pedal on the left. It was simple.
But it wasn’t.
Your colleague’s shoe got ever so slightly stuck against the excess cloth of their jeans, and while it didn’t completely stop her foot, it did slow the time to get it back into place. And in their lack of experience, mixed with the panic of the quickly-approaching stop sign, your colleague mistakenly slammed the gas pedal, barreling the truck towards the intersection.
“Hit the brakes!”, screamed their grandmother, but it was too late.
The truck slammed into a 1986 Hyundai Grandeur, absolutely demolishing the poor car and coming to a near immediate halt.
Your colleague lifted their head off of the steering wheel, and felt blood as it dripped down their cheeks. Unable to process where exactly they were or what happened, they look outside as confusion overtook them. They begin to recognize their surroundings, they are just four minutes from their moms house. They almost made it home.
They look at the front of the truck. The front bumper is folded in and crunched three feet in. Smoke poured from the cracks of the bent hood. God, their grandmother was going to kill them.
Wait… Their grandmother!
Your colleague shot their gaze to the passenger seat, only to find it empty.
“Huh?” Your colleague was dumbfounded. Their grandmother was just in there.
They look slightly ahead to the windshield, where a giant hole has formed in it. Once again, panic creeps its way through your colleagues body. They fear the worst has happened.
They look through the hole in the windshield ahead at the road. A dark wet trail leads to a folded and wrinkled lump, unable to be made out by your colleague’s concussed eyes. They know what they are looking at though.
They get out of the truck, struggling with the door at first, and ran towards the lump in the road. There, their grandmother lied, arms broken and bent, torso skinned and leaking, face littered with broken glass and rocks.
“Grandmother!”, your colleague shouted.
Without thinking, your colleague turned her grandmother around and onto her back. They discovered that she is still breathing, but her breaths are labored and suffering.
“What did you do wrong?”, she asked, pain scorching through each word.
“I — I made a mistake! I hit the gas instead of the brakes!”, your colleague responded, sobbing.
“No, not that. That is not why you find me here on the pavement.”
“Huh?”
“The mistake you made was before the truck was even started.”
“What are you talking about, Grandmother?”
Their grandmother clenched her bloody jaw.
“You always, ALWAYS check and make sure your passenger’s have their seatbelts on”, she scolded through her teeth.
“I — I thought you put it on”, your colleague begged.
“Does it look like I did?”, she asked, coughing up blood. “This is your fault. This is your fucking fault.”
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean for this…”
“Yeah, well I bet you didn’t mean for your daddy to die either. He never drank before you came around.”
“Please stop it, Grandmother…”
She inhaled, blood clearly pooling in her lungs. She couldn’t speak another word. She coughed vigorously.
Then, all the sudden, she was gone. The life drained from her like the blood leaking from her head.
About thirty minutes pass, your colleague is sitting in the back of an ambulance, their minor wounds being treated. They stare blankly ahead, awareness is but a memory at this point.
Crime scene tape has surrounded the accident, and a small crowd has formed, watching the police work.
A woman runs to the crime scene, and is stopped by a police officer there.
“Please”, she pled, “I am family!”
Your colleague recognized the voice as their mother.
“I am sorry ma’am”, commanded one officer. “You’re going to have to wait. You don’t want to see this.”
Panicked, their mother searched around for a familiar face, before seeing your colleague in the ambulance.
“Your Colleague!”, she screamed, running towards them.
She jumped into the ambulance and quickly embraced your colleague, thanking god while doing so. This was the most affection your colleague’s mother has shown in years. They took comfort in it, despite the horrible circumstances which cultivated it. Their mother broke the embrace and grabbed your colleagues shoulders, locking eyes with her.
“I need you to tell me what happened”, she asked, tension in her voice. “Where is your grandmother?”
Flashbacks of the horrors they have seen flood your colleague's mind. How can they tell their mother that their grandmother let them drive their cherished vehicle, then didn’t even ensure that she was safe in that vehicle? How can they tell their mother that their grandmother’s dying words were blaming your colleague for their father’s death? How can they tell her mother, whom they love, that her mother is dead, mutilated, and on display for the world, and they are to blame?
How can your colleague tell a family member something that they cannot change in ten seconds?
It so obviously violates one’s morals. Giving someone the worst news of their life; in public nevertheless. It goes against every rational fiber of your being. Every cell in your body that empathizes with another person wants to protect that person from any sort of discomfort or pain. Your initial instinct is to lie, or at the very least, hide the truth.
But by robbing them of that pain, you also rob them of the growth that comes with that pain. You rob them of the community they seek after learning such awful news. You rob them of new habits that lead to new lifestyles that lead to new friendships that otherwise wouldn’t have formed had it not been for that pain. You rob them of the beauty of watching as pain subsides, and is replaced by love and reverence.
Such a stark truth is not yours to keep from them. Much like it isn’t in your best interest for them to shield you from strife.
It is not your job to protect the people in your life from the harsh realities; rather, it is your job to be their guiding hand through it. Give people the opportunity to feel, and offer validation and support. Only then will you receive the same validation and support in return.
In conclusion
Do it. Tell your cousin his nuts stink. Do it in public, fuck it. It isn’t your secret to keep. It’s his truth to embrace. Then, and only then will he be granted the chance of redemption. Don’t rob him of that.
Before I leave you, I want to end with another excerpt from the inscription found at The Eldora Grotto, a hauntingly beautiful destination, full of mystery, and this song is a testament to that, and art’s perseverance through time.
I thought that I told you, I need the advance
Put down your IG and look through my lens
A million to grandma, who did I offend?
The girl of your dreams to me is a fan
I netted ten million and did a lil’ dance
I’m fuckin’ the world, I unzip my pants
My uncle G told me that I had a chance
So then I popped out and did it again
And did it again, and did it again
I cannot respect them, where did he begin?
— family ties
Song by Baby Keem and Kendrick Lamar
