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My uncle checked me out of the basement jail where I was doing a year for growing weed. (He was drinking pals with the county judge.) Back at the ranch the entire clan gathered to gaze upon the fish-white black sheep and offer non-support. “You’re a pawn of Satan,” my fundamentalist sister cooed in my ear. “We’ll see; you’ll fuck up parole and be back,” another sloshed uncle said. Expressly forbidden from having any cocktails, I had to watch my extended fam pound the cocktails while I nibbled dry turkey. In a clan of germanic Montana cattlemen who have been drunk since Odin was a boy, I got naught. Back at the jail, everybody was hammered on pruno.