David Sedaris

is funny.

Here is an excerpt from his new book (which I'm really liking). He has just finished discussing his sister's germaphobe tendencies (I CANNOT possibly relate):

"They're minor, though, compared with what Hugh had. He was eight years old and living in the Congo when he noticed a red spot on his leg. Nothing huge — a mosquito bite, he figured. The following day, the spot became more painful, and the day after that he looked down and saw a worm poking out.
A few weeks later, the same thing happened to Maw Hamrick, which is what I call Hugh's mother, Joan. Her worm was a bit shorter than her son's, not that the size really matters. If I was a child and saw something creeping out of a hole in my mother's leg, I would march to the nearest orphanage and put myself up for adoption. I would burn all pictures of her, destroy anything she had ever given me, and start all over because that is simply disgusting. A dad can be crawling with parasites and somehow it's OK, but on a mom, or any woman, really, it's unforgivable.
"Well, that's sort of chauvinistic of you, don't you think?" Maw Hamrick said. She'd come to Paris for Christmas, as had Lisa and her husband, Bob. The gifts had been opened, and she was collecting the used wrapping paper and ironing it flat with her hands. "It was just a guinea worm. People got them all the time." She looked toward the kitchen, where Hugh was doing something to a goose. "Honey, where do you want me to put this paper?"
"Burn it," Hugh said.
"Oh, but it's so pretty. Are you sure you won't want to use it again?"
"Burn it," Hugh repeated.
"What's this about a worm?" Lisa asked. She was lying on the sofa with a blanket over her, still groggy from her nap.
"Joan here had a worm living inside her leg," I said, and Maw Hamrick threw a sheet of wrapping paper into the fire, saying, "Oh, I wouldn't call that living."
"But it was inside of you?" Lisa said, and I could see her wheels turning: Have I ever used the toilet after this woman? Have I ever touched her coffee cup, or eaten off her plate? How soon can I get tested? Are the hospitals open on Christmas Day, or will I have to wait until tomorrow?
"It was a long time ago," Joan said.
"Like, how long?" Lisa asked.
"I don't know — 1968, maybe."
My sister nodded, the way someone does when she's doing math in her head. "Right," she said, and I regretted having brought it up. She was no longer looking at Maw Hamrick but through her, seeing what an X-ray machine might: the stark puzzle of bones and, teeming within it, the thousands of worms who did not leave home in 1968. I used to see the same thing, but after fifteen years or so, I got over it, and now I just see Maw Hamrick. Maw Hamrick ironing, Maw Hamrick doing the dishes, Maw Hamrick taking out the trash. She wants to be a good houseguest and is always looking for something to do.
"Can I maybe ... ?" she asks, and before she's finished I answer yes, by all means.
"Did you tell my mother to crawl on her hands and knees across the living room floor?" Hugh asks, and I say, "Well, no, not exactly. I just suggested that if she was going to dust the baseboards, that would be the best way to do it."
When Maw Hamrick's around, I don't lift a finger. All my chores go automatically to her, and I just sit in a rocker, raising my feet every now and then so she can pass the vacuum. It's incredibly relaxing, but it doesn't make me look very good, especially if she's doing something strenuous, carrying furniture to the basement, for instance, which again, was completely her idea. I just mentioned in passing that we rarely used the dresser, and that one of these days someone should take it downstairs. I didn't mean her, exactly, though at age seventy-six she's a lot stronger than Hugh gives her credit for. Coming from Kentucky, she's used to a hard day's work. Choppin', totin', all those activities with a dropped g: the way I figure it, these things are in her genes.
It's only a problem when other people are around, and they see this slight, white-haired woman with sweat running down her forehead. Lisa and Bob, for instance, who were staying in Patsy's empty apartment. Every night they'd come over for dinner, and Maw Hamrick would hang up their coats before ironing the napkins and setting the table. Then she'd serve drinks and head into the kitchen to help Hugh.
"You really lucked out," Lisa said, sighing, as Joan rushed to empty my ashtray. Her mother-in-law had recently moved into an assisted living development, the sort of place that's renounced the word "seniors" and refers to the residents as "graying tigers." "I love Bob's mom to death, but Hugh's — my God! And to think that she was eaten by worms."
"Well, they didn't technically eat her," I said.
"Then what were they living on? Are you telling me they brought their own food?"
I guessed that she was right, but what do guinea worms eat? Certainly not fat, or they'd never have gone to Joan, who weighs ninety pounds, tops, and can still fit into her prom gown. Not muscle, or she'd never be able to take over my chores.