On Saturday I was introduced to the world of ingeniously emetic amusement park rides by my little brother Bob (who is "little" only in relative chronological terms--he towers over me). This was mostly a picture-taking excursion, since I'm not crazy about being separated from the contents of my stomach in public (I added that for those of you who are too lazy to google 'emetic", and you know who you are. In fact, all of you know who you are, come to think of it, except for my sister Lynne). Bob, sensing my preference for overweight people as subject matter (and I'm exempt from any PC rules that might apply here, since I belong to the population I'm referencing--I looked it up in the rulebook. And they're just more interesting to draw, dammit), began acting as my spotter, seeking out particularly corpulent subjects and shouting "Here's one, over here! Hold still!" That last to the subject, who would be squirming anxiously in his grasp. The most frightening ride of the night, by a long shot, was the trip home, during most of which Bob hung out the window videotaping storm clouds behind us (did I mention he was driving?) Noticing my growing consternation, he said, and I quote: "Don't worry. I can't help it," as if those two statements remotely belonged together, or offered any reassurance whatsoever. As a final note, I'll add that for years Bob thought that the name of this blog was some sort of veiled threat aimed at him, which I found pretty funny. It's odd how many of the things that make me laugh involve bodily harm to family members. Don't worry, I can't help it.