Me: Laying on a picnic table, smoking a blunt, drinking party liquor straight from the bottle.

Father: Hands me a non-descript paper bag.

M: *coughing* The hell is this?

F: Beaming. Beside himself with pride. They're salsa bowls.

M: ...

F: cheezin

M: Plastic molcajete. Have you been stealing from El Cazador? That's my thing. Don't do that.

F: Beginning to look a little defeated. But... For salsa, right?

M: Yes, father. Salsa. I take it you want salsa.

F: If. You're not... otherwise occupied.