Hoo boy, if that don’t take the cake! Aunt Fanny spouts, shaking her kerchiefed head, fanning herself with last month’s TV Guide bunched up in her knobby fingers, slippered feet propped on a brittle wicker stool, an oscillating fan sputtering at her gnarly toes as she rumbles judgment against this and that, a babbling stew of words, a bullhorn of blather, and our eyes bug out as she begins to shudder and quake, the furor of her frenzied tirades short-circuiting her brain, the pflaumenkuchen falling from lap to porch, plum and crumbs stuck to her wrinkled lips, the sugared tea splattering onto the frayed cord, causing the sole family fan to spark like fireworks, flatline from the sticky spill, and we’re left standing here to melt in the heat as our poor Fanny’s scuppered, mouth forever shuttered in August’s sultry swelter.