Many Christmases ago, in Savannah, GA circa 1980, Ben Hubby’s wife, Barbara - my mom - approached him with the idea of a holiday party. This idea was met with a, "NO WAY!" that gradually evolved into, “Okay, YOU can have a party IF I get to do WHATEVER I want! All I need is a copy of the guest list.” Mom reluctantly agreed.

In the days preceding the event, Dad was seen hiding his yellow legal pad scribblings in labeled manila folders and cackling to himself with mischievous and maniacal glee. The night before, mysterious electronic prrrs and spits were overheard coming from downstairs, alongside a dirge of furniture thumping, more cackling, and the typewriter’s stammer.

The day of the party arrived. Mom was, and still is, a pro atmosphere maker, so the house was bedecked in tinsel, glowing in candlelight, and saturated with the fumes of spiced mulled wine. Ever the optimist, Mom asked my sister, Bolyn, and I, to go upstairs and fetch our father. From behind the locked bedroom door Dad bellowed, “Tell your mother I won’t be coming down. You’ll understand in a minute.”

As the guests settled into a  melodic hum of exchanged pleasantries, an amplified tapping noise emerged. “Testing, testing, testing…this is Ben Hubby from the bedroom….” His commanding voice filled every nook and cranny – he’d hidden speakers throughout the house, so there was no escaping this. He went on: “I HATE parties, and I will tell you exactly why! I can imagine what unsavory behavior is happening down there right now:

Mr. Green is chasing my wife around the table after getting stoned in his car, Mrs. Peacock has undone one too many buttons on her blouse, Colonel Mustard is oversharing his various medical issues, and the spirited Professor Plum is ashing his cigar onto our carpet as he lures Miss Scarlett into his arms…and the arms of God.” [names have been changed to protect the identity of the partygoers]

One by one, Dad individually roasted each guest, ending the monologue dramatically with an unforgettable scatological metaphor, and: mic drop.

Some folks left in a huff, others stayed to comfort Mom, one or two were thoroughly amused, and I was riveted to the spot with guilty wide-eyed fascination. Mom and Bolyn were suitably mortified by the whole scene.

I often wonder, what if it had happened a little bit differently... and so, I rewrote it this year for the 3rd time, with his blessing from the beyond. I collaborated with my cousin Tyler Hubby who channeled Dad (eerily well) in this reenactment. I give my gratitude to all friends in attendance, who supported the cathartic evening with their participation and self-roasting, and to Florian Stadler for this video. Most importantly, I applaud my mother, who was able to attend with an open heart whilst bearing the original memory, and my sister, who also experienced the shock of the past and was still able to see the beauty in this karmic cleansing.

HERE IS HOW IT ALL PLAYED OUT on sunday december 10th, 2023! Introducing - drumroll please… Dr. Frank Benedict Hubby: