It was Friday, which meant another night of Mom’s spaghetti. Slim and Shady forked it into their slack-jawed mouths with the malaise of a drunken donkey. It was the soggy pasta on Shady’s plate that moved first. Just a wiggle. A single noodle slithering onto the table. Then the mouthful Slim had just shoveled in. Twisting and writhing like a den of snakes. The boys ejected from the table, spitting, gagging and turning to Mom. Her eyes wide and watering as overcooked spaghetti noodles drenched in Ragu wormed their way out of her nostrils, slurping and wrapping around her neck.

Eric Scot Tryon can be followed on Twitter @EricScotTryon.