Tonight my friend Phil confessed that he’s been taking knitting lessons for several months. After I punched him in the face and finished my Boilermaker, I demanded an explanation. “First of all,” he assured me, “it’s a totally discreet service. The lessons take place in a basement-level, unmarked apartment.”
I nodded slowly, indicating that he may continue. Then I socked him in the face again, as a pre-emptive strike.
“Wait!” he cried, blood running in thin rivulets from his nostrils. “You have to understand something. When I was a child, my Nana” – SMACK! – “Fuck! Ow! Fuck! Anyway, my grandmother loved to knit, and then after she died I just always wanted to take up knitting. See?”
I considered this for a moment and replied, “Your grandmother’s last words better have been ‘Phil – finish this sweater…’.” Then I smashed him in the teeth with the blunt end of a roofing hammer. My gang has three rules for membership, and all of them are “no knitting.” As a kingpin, it is crucial that I learn to draw a line.
