"Best book I've ever read!"-Doug, the other cousin. You don't choose your cousin. They don't choose you. You do choose to get in a hell of a lot of trouble with them, get out ok, and then get in more trouble. Being dumb never stopped him. Being fat never stopped him. Being smart never stopped me. These two idiots survived bears at the beach, guns in Tijuana, bad decisions in Reno, and their Reverend Grandpa. Thousands of dollars worth of beer later, they're still idiots. Ten short stories about family, non-toxic male bonding in the unhealthiest way, and what it means to be cousins. Is it a bad decision? Let's do it. Inside the Cherry Bomb“Doug rear-ended an old lady with a special needs kid.” “Is my car okay?” Uncle Wayne had a gray 1987 Nissan Sentra. It was about to be Doug’s gray 1987 Nissan Sentra, but at this moment it was Uncle Wayne’s first concern. On the way, my dad asked, “how special needs?” “I don’t know, I heard her say it to Doug and I’m running with it.” ... *The Kegerator Doug’s fucking friends would stop by constantly to drink beers since we had a keg. It got expensive, so we tried a couple Jar on top of the fridge for donations. Give us a couple bucks at least, you cheap fuckers. It never worked. Get good beer and then maybe people would help pay. Nope. Fuckers. We gave up and stocked it with Busch Light. Thirty bucks a keg. They all hated it, so wouldn’t drink more than one at a time. Until he became buddies with all the National Guard guys and they didn’t give a shit. They loved that stuff. Still no donation money. We would run through beer so fast that we had to have backup beers in the kegerator. The keg would always blow at around seven or eight p.m. when we couldn’t go to the distributor to get a new one and we were ready to really get after some beers. We (probably me) decided that Old English forties would be great backup beers. They fit in the door and we could have six to eight of them in there. Just in case. The first time we had to break into the backup beers, we were playing a very important football video game. Doug runs over to pull a beer, and it just spat foam. Old English time. He grabs a forty, gets back to his seat. We started playing again. Next chance he gets, he reaches down to grab this delicious malt beverage, takes a huge drink out of the ice cold bottle–and fucking pukes all over the couch. Five Old English bottles sat in the keg fridge until we moved. Two Idiots, Ten Stories RJ White