My Uncle Chester has Gynecomastia

My uncle Chester is a real black sheep of our family. Standing at a massive six foot five with flowing blonde hair but equipped with a huge bald spot, my Uncle Chester drank a fifth of whiskey every single time he joined out family for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and our yearlt family reunion. He was also a former biker, but his massive beer belly and multiple DUIs prevented him from riding his Harley. Despite this, it never stopped Uncle Chester from showing up in black leather chaps, sleeveless leather vests, a massive beer gut and a thick yellow-orange beard not quite as voluptuous as his gynecomastia man boobs.

Each holiday he would hoist himself up in the nearest armchair he could find and begin drinking whiskey. He often brought along Jameson or Powers or Gentleman Jack, and would pour clean shots from the bottle until dinner was ready. As a racist, he would scream from the living room to my all-Catholic family, "When the hell are you Jews gonna be done with that Turkey?" My mother said he learned his racism in Vietnam, and indeed, he would often shout "Charlie!" or slur stories about the Vietcong when he drank too much. As of a few years ago, his weight was becoming an issue, and my grandmother attempted to point out his fat beer gut, triple chin, and gynecomastia.

He would often yell in response something about how he fought for the country three times and could therefore gain as much weight as he wanted. He did not seem to like anyone else in the family very much, but by the time I was fifteen, Uncle Chester could be counted on to sneak me sips of whiskey while my mom and grandmother were toiling away in the kitchen. At a young age I learned about Vietnamese prostitutes, how the Jews controlled international banking and media outlets, and why I needed to get to Mexico if I ever committed several felonies, including interstate drug trafficking.

Despite his obesity that created his large, bulbous gynecomastia, I loved Uncle Chester. Even though he said racist things that would often upset my family, I accepted him for who he was and saw him more of an oddball character that simply liked to stir up the pot. He definitely had more interesting stories than anyone in my family; one time he told me that when he was in his early 20s, he would break into party supply stores, steal balloon nitrous tanks, and sell hits off the tank to young punks at the beach from the back of a stolen van. That was in southern California back in the 1970s - who knows what else Uncle Chester had been up to since.

It will probably be another great time when Uncle Chester shows up this summer to our next family reunion. He will surely show up with several whiskey bottles, demanding to drive around the block on my cousins' motorcycles before being yelled at about his DUIs. He will plop down in the shade and begin drinking, flirting with any girls who may happen to pass by while yelling racist epithets at his siblings for his own humor. Uncle Chester is sure to make this year's reunion another unforgettable time.