Friday, June 15, 2007
That was a quick five minutes.
Whoa. Hello! Wow, I would ask how you are, but I'm kind of feeling too blown away at the moment. So regular readers of this blog already know a few things: 1) I like Chick-o-Stix. 2) My mom is dead. 3) I have a lamb. Her name is Karen. 4) The girl I like (Trudy) works at the bank, and doesn't like me right now because I made her date Damien (who is a jerk) in order to regain the second base position on my softball team, and then I flipped out when she tongue kissed him, and then I really flipped out when Damien suggested that my dad was behind the whole mess. Did you know all that about me?
Anyway, it took forever, but I finally set up a five-minute meeting at 3:42 pm today with my dad to confront him, and tell him to STOP dinking around in my life! Naturally, things did NOT go as planned.
When I arrived at dad's offices at 3:37 pm, Francoise (that's his personal assitant) was super snotty to me, and didn't even offer me a Tab. (For some reason, dad's office only serves Tab.) It's too bad. I love Tab. Anyway, I was super-duper nervous, and had so much sweat was pouring out of my pits, Francoise offered to run to the break room for a sponge. He's a jerk.
But finally, I was escorted into dad's office. Oh my dad, that place is SO intimidating! Everything is either leather or mahogany, and he has stupid books lying around with titles such as "The Art of War."
Anyway, here's how the conversation went: (By the way, did I mention that my dad is a non-corporeal being? That is to say, he doesn't have arms, feet, and a head, and stuff? Well… if I didn't… he's a non-coporeal being.)
"Well, well. How's it hanging, son?" he said.
"Actually dad," I said, "since this can only be a five minute conversation, what do you say we dispense with the PMF pleasantries?"
"I'd like to know why you asked Damien to ruin my life, because I am my own man, dad, and you have to learn to accept me for who I am, especially if you're never going to return my phone calls, or pull me down off the cross even when they're nailing spikes into my wrists, and…"
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" dad said. "Who's Damien?"
"DON'T PLAY DUMB, DAD! He's the guy you paid to steal second base, Trudy, and Karen from me!"
"You're dating two girls now? Niiiiice."
"Wait… what?! I like Trudy—she's a bank teller—but Karen is my lamb!"
"Oh," he said. "That's a weird name for a lamb."
"QUIT TRYING TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT. I only have 3 and a half minutes left."
"Okay, fine. How about this? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT."
"You deny that you paid Damien to ruin my life so I would come to work for you?" I asked.
"Okay…" he said. "Let's put our cards out on the table. When have I EVER messed with your life, or for that matter, shown you any attention?"
That one stumped me.
"Jesus," he said. "I know I'm not a good dad. That's because I'm not a dad. The way I float around this office, I might as well be a purfume fart." (Pardon his French.) You know as well as I do—probably better than anybody—that those bible stories are made up, and I DON'T GET INVOLVED ANYMORE. Basically I've got about as much power as the Queen of England—except I don't get to make appearances. Look. I'm sorry if you've run into a rough patch, but I didn't cause it to happen. YOU DID. If you lost Trudy, Karen or this second base situation, maybe it's because you didn't do enough to deserve it. But regardless, I can't do anything about that. I'm sorry, but I don't control the weather, and I can't make you happy. You've still got a shot at it though—just remember: nobody's stopping you but you."
"Dad… wow… I'm really…"
"Don't worry about it. I get this all the time. Look, I've got a 3:48 coming in just a second. Do you want a Tab before you leave?"
"No… no, thanks. I gotta go. But dad?"
"I know you're not a real dad in the way dad's usually are, but you are my dad anyway… so, ummm… have a happy father's day."
"Ha. That's a good one. Thanks. Send me some Old Spice next year. FRANCOISE! SEND IN MY 3:48!"