I'm not even going to justify that with a side-by-side photo comparison.
Ok, fine, I will justify it with pictures. Here's Caillou:
Here's Chuck last Halloween:
See?
Then Larry asked my brother, Ted, if he and Chuck were gay lovers—because they took a picture together with the disposable table camera.
This all transpired before the best man's speech.
My brother retaliated by doing shots of tequila and dragging me and Chuck outside to talk about the best way to jump Larry.
"He's old," Chuck said, "so you'd have to punch low."
"We're at a wedding," I said.
"He said your husband looked like a pre-pubescent, hairless freak," Ted said. Actually, it came out more like, "He shled your hushband looked like a pre-plescent, hairless fleak."
He'd had a lot of tequila.
In the end, no one beat up Larry. Instead, my brother came to the drunken conclusion that I should tell Larry I was with child. If I were to play an inebriated game of connect-the-dots, I guessed my pregnancy would prove that a) Chuck was so un-Caillouish that he'd knocked me up and that b) since Chuck was boffing me, clearly he and Ted were not gay.
I think? Why couldn't I just eat my steak and potatoes in peace?
I told Ted no, I wasn't ready to tell the entire family about my bun. But I'll bet you can see where this is going. On the way out, Ted did the equivalent of pull down my shorts in front of the high school gymnasium. He went up to Larry and slurred, "My shister's pregnant. Shle's having another baby."
He waited.
Then Larry said, "I know. Your sister's a lush, Ted. She hasn't had a drink all night. I've known all night."
Punch low, is that about right, Chuck?
