Exhibit A: Uncle Dewey

I actually have a passion for grumpy people. I guess it's because I spend so much of my time faking positivity and happiness that I don't think I can trust anyone who is positive and happy. Grumpy people, on the other hand, don't seem to be out to impress. They're just there, take 'em or leave 'em, and they just don't give a damn if you leave 'em. Or maybe they do. But I perceive them as feeling indifferent to the approval of others and I admire that.

Take, for example, my Uncle Dewey, pictured on the left. (No, he is not a Russian. No, he did not star in Fiddler on the Roof.) He's one of my most favorite people in the whole world. I love him to death.

Why?

Not because he's been fiscally successful. He's actually a retired Greyhound bus driver.

Not because he has great personal charm, either. He's currently living in a house without a functioning shower and told my mom the other day that if people said he stank, he'd just move a little closer to them.

And it's not because he's succeeded in all his personal relationships. He's failed several marriages and his children are all a little messed up.

Definitely not because he's a religious pillar. The man hasn't stepped foot inside a church for years.

Not because he serves the community. He's spent most of the past twenty years sitting in his trailer, watching baywatch, and drinking.

I don't love him because he's a great intellectual. Most of his braincells have been shot by years of alcoholism and his conversations typically center around How Damn Lousy Republicans Are and How Things Would Be Damn Better If the Democrats Were in Power. (I may or may not agree with him, but there's never any logic or reasoning behind these sentiments.)

But anyway, the point is, I love Dewey because he's Dewey. I just like, well, him. I like his grumpiness. I like his voice. I like his crazy beard. I like his laugh. I like his cussing. I like the funny things he says. I like that he named a cow after me. I just like his aura. I like to be in a room with him. There's not really anything he could possibly do (except maybe killing a loved one) that could make me love him any less or more. Of course, I would be happy if he quit drinking and found a little lady friend and maybe got a part-time job and started reading Dostoevsky again, but that's because I love him and want him to be happy... not because I think his doing these things would make him any more loveable or worthy of my affections and company.

Ah.

So maybe that's how God feels.