Unbeknownst to the guests of Aunt Marple’s annual Tupperware party, the family mule had been drinking. Marty, as the mule was called, couldn’t hold his liquor. The Tupperware party would understand that fact soon.
John, Aunt Marple’s husband, despised the annual plastic food storage gathering in his back yard. For several years, he tolerated the dozen or so women that gathered along with his wife and a Tupperware sales representative in the clearing behind his modest home. John would watch television, or nap until the evening when his wife would totter in to the kitchen with an armful of plastic bowls with matching lids and start stuffing them into the cupboards. He’d had enough when he found his coffee mugs replaced with small Tupperware bowls after last year’s party.
“They don’t have handles,” John said.
“They stack on top of each other,” Aunt Marple said. “They save so much space.”
“I’ll burn my fingers,” John said.
“They have lids so you can take them to work.”
John had set to getting Marty good and drunk all afternoon. Marty didn’t want to drink at first. John had to dump nearly half of the two-six of Jack Daniels into Marty’s oats. Marty didn’t mind the taste of the whisky so much after that. John had some JD too.
Later, the two of them could see the guests arriving with potluck contributions at the picnic table from their drinking spot in the shed. Leftovers would be carted away in newly purchased Tupperware. Marty swayed back and forth in an attempt to keep balanced.
“It’s almost time,” John said. “Wait until they get settled in.”
Once all the guests had seated themselves at the table John sent Marty to join them with a stiff slap on the ass. The next day Aunt Marple announced to her former guests, the annual Tupperware party would be put on indefinite hiatus until former notice.