I'm not sure how these conversations unravel in my house, but I'm pretty sure they don't occur in other, more normal homes.

It all started with the great discovery of Dicky Beer. Somewhere along the timeline of our night, my father discovered that the actor who played Boba Fett, the character that children and adults alike idolize, was named Dicky Beer. Immediately, they began coming up with how his childhood was full of tragedy and bullying because of his damn name, but then he grew up to play so many awesome characters. Of course, this lead to my mother deciding to make a documentary of this...touching story. Starring Johnny Depp, of course.

Obviously.

As we were discussing Dicky Beer, my brother emerged from the bathroom wearing naught but his boxers, screaming that the toilet was clogged. It being his first time faced with this situation, he was honestly pretty hopeless. I think my father believed he knew how to handle it well enough, though, since he remained on the chair, talking about Dicky Beer's soon to be documentary. Eventually, it became evident that Crimson had no idea whatsoever what he was doing, and we became worried that he was going to flood our washroom with less than sanitary water. He stayed in the chair for a few minutes, though, to the simultaneous amusement and frustration of me and my mother.

What ensued was worthy of videoing and dredging up at Crimson's wedding just to watch him squirm. Poop jokes, bad cooperation, and much more could be heard from our washroom, all as I was just waiting to take a shower.

Finally, the boys prevailed against the unsavoury clog, but then things got a little out of control. My parents had been spontaneously shouting "DICKY BEER!" at everyone and everything, so Crimson sought to put an end to it. He came in and yelled that "if you take the number of times you've said that in the past ten minutes, you'd have more dicks AND beers than a bar." My mother, not being average, whipped around and said that he was probably talking about a gay bar then, but they have more fruity drinks in large glasses than beer. This, as one would expect, slightly threw my brother off course momentarily. My father seized the opportunity to stop the challenge that we all knew he was forming by saying that my mother knows more about gay bars than Crimson did, and that he didn't know where she's been.

All of this somehow spiralled into Crimson talking about sausagefests and how my father "didn't know the definition of it." I believe he forgot the fact that our father went to an all-boy's high school.

Suddenly, all of the whole evening's conversation convened into one weird, cracked twenty minutes of Crimson saying he was sassing when in fact we all know the sassiest person in this household is none other than the one writing this, and every single one of us called him out on it. He seemed to think that revising it to he was "being quippy" would help.

It did not.

At all.

Rather, my father shouted in from the kitchen that he should be hit in the face with a sausage. This conjured all sorts of images throughout the family, the most amusing of which was my mother's. She envisioned a man just crashing in and smacking my brother across the face with a bratwurst. And then she acted it out.

What happens in some families stays in the family, but not in mine. They turned to me and told me to blog it.

I was already thinking of titles.

Apparently, so was my father. He proposed many, the one I believe his favourite being "Dicky Beer and the Clogged Sausage," to vehement disapproval from Crimson.

And so, somehow this crazy conversation returned to my mother's budding documentary of Dicky Beer's life story, starring Johnny Depp, none of us wiser or smarter, but happier in general.

As you may say, conversations turn to the interesting side after ten thirty in my house.