Uncle Slappy and the Olympics.

I was doing what I like to do most this Sunday evening. I was listening to classical music—something by Gonoud—when she asked me to turn off the radio and turn on the closing ceremonies, aka, the closing commercials of the Olympic Games in Rio.

Knowing what I know about marital felicity, I, of course, complied. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about flags, smiles, bombast and pomposity, the closing ceremonies were it.

Fortunately at the very moment my head was about to spin 360-degrees around and I was to start spewing green vomit and commence with the incantation “Bob Costas, Bob Costas, Bob Costas,” the land line rang. That can only mean one thing, Uncle Slappy was calling.

I quickly ran into our bedroom, picked up the phone and closed the door against the Hellenic blather.

“Boychick,” the old man began. “You are not watching the closing pheromonies?”

“Frankly, Uncle Slappy, I’ve had more than enough.”

“I’ve had more than enough since the 1964 games in Tokyo. And they’re only worse today with all the commentators and the commercials. They’re like hemorrhoids for your mind.”

I laughed at that and gave him the courtesy of a long pause.

“Besides, an Olympic medal is ok. But it’s not the top award in the world.”

“No, I suppose that’s the Nobel Peace Prize,” I offered.

“Not even close. With Aunt Sylvie watching so much of the Olympics, I went down this afternoon to “From Schmear to Eternity.”

From Schmear to Eternity is the bagel place and deli about two strip malls from Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Slappy’s condo complex.

“They are revamping their menu. They are honoring people by naming sandwiches after them. The Sol Schuster is corned beef, chopped liver and a slice of red onion on pumpernickel.”

“You’re making me hungry,” I admitted.

“The Norma Weintraub is roast beef, turkey and swiss cheese.”

“Not my cup of tea, that one, but I suppose it has its appeal.”

“Even Soupy Weinstock has a sandwich named after him. Turkey, tongue, pastrami, cole slaw and Russian dressing.”

“That sounds like something Soupy would eat.”

“Would eat and would make you pay for,” Uncle Slappy clarified. “The man never met a check he decided to pick up.”

“How about you, Uncle Slappy? Were you so honored?”

“Me, I got the best.”

“Corned beef, pastrami, brisket with cole slaw. The Uncle Slappy.”

“That’s it,” the old man said.

“Sounds delicious.”

“It’s better than delicious.” I could swear I heard him sample a bite. “It’s positively Olympian.”

And with that, he hung up the blower.