Let Them Eat Cake

Hey now I think I know why they killed that French lady for giving everyone cake, they wanted ice cream!

Sunday was my birthday party, it wasn't actually my birthday, and so OurDad kept calling it my pseudobirthday. Other than that OurDad behaved, he really loves me. He even helped everyone skate since most of my friends can't ice skate. I knew lots of them couldn't skate, but I wanted an ice skating party before I left Michigan for Missouri where there isn't any ice--especially with global warming! Anyway we had pizza and chocolate cake, and there was lot's left over. So that's all we've eaten for a couple days pizza and chocolate cake. Cake, Cake, Cake, Pizza, Pizza, Pizza! I'm sick of it. Yesterday we had pizza for breakfast and lunch and dinner. Today we said, "we weren't eating pizza for breakfast!" So OurDad said we could eat Cake. The BoyChild thought this was great, but I wanted ice cream.

"Dad, what's the difference? Cake and ice cream are really for dessert so if you can eat cake for breakfast why can't you eat ice cream for breakfast?" Usually this type of logic works on OurDad. He thought for a moment and said, "it's too cold. Ice cream is too cold, you just can't eat food that's that cold for breakfast."

"Fine," I said, "then I'll have hot chocolate!" And he actually made me hot chocolate. I was being sarcastic! It's only supposed to reach 92 degrees today. That's why I want ice cream for breakfast!

I'm going back to bed until after breakfast so I can have ice cream.

Environmental Science Proves It or To Pee or not to Pee

Last week OurDad took his Environmental Science class to a waste water treatment facility. That's where all the water in your house or business goes to be cleaned up before it's released back into the environment.

This sounds appropriate for an environmental science class, but not in the hands of OurDad. The first hint of trouble was that he entitled the field trip, "What Happens When You Flush." Gross!

Ok so it is about poo water, and the students were grossed out-- like they don't poo-- but the facility's manager told them it's not just toilet water, "it's dish water, shower water, anything that goes down the drain." At these words OurDad was enraptured by an epiphany: "So it's ok to pee in the shower!" he thought out loud.

Great environmental science makes the planet safe from OurDad's pee. What's next the pool?

Be sure to see OurDad's side of this one in the comments.

Paper or Porcelain

Lately we have been using a lot of paper plates. Ok maybe the dishes aren't really porcelain, but Paper or China didn't have that paper or plastic alliterative ring to it (oh God OurDad is wearing off on us).

But I was wondering since OurDad is teaching Environmental Science this semester at the Old CC which was better for the environment, real dishes or the paper dishes.

"Hey Dad what would the Goracle say about us using all these paper plates?" I knew I was risking an entire environmental science lecture, but since we don't have a power point projector at home I figured it was pretty safe from the worst of it.

"Well son, there's more than just trees to consider. Sure cutting down trees is bad, but necessary in our society and many trees are farmed just for paper, paper can be recycled into make more paper plates or cups for that matter, and if you recycle them they aren't taking up space in a landfill.

The thought of eating off someone else's recycled plate was disgusting. "Dad I don't think yucky paper plates with grease and bits of food all over them can be recycled. They don't recycle pizza boxes. And cutting any amount of trees has a negative impact on global carbon emissions, farmed or not."

"Well it's not just about trees, how about the water we're saving. Not only the water we'd use to clean those plates," he said with a sneer and pointing to the cabinets to indicate the real dishes, "but the water we'd be polluting with all that detergent too."

"So water is more important that trees-- when you have to clean the dishes."

Just don't put it that way to your mother.

OurDad's Father's Day or Perhaps it's Androgyny

We are still getting the house ready for this dismal market here in SE Michigan. It's so bad GreatMom had OurDad working on Father's Day. First he shoveled a truckload of mulch onto all the garden beds in the front yard, then he watered all the flowers and bushes (that global warming thing is acting up here in MI-- it hasn't rained on over a week and it's hot).

Then we took him out, for a break, to Home Depot his favorite store in the world so we could buy him some paint and trim. Then he painted the garage door. Then he installed trim around the entryway into the garage. He even put my bed back together, because they think the bunk bed makes my room look small. Yeah right... I think they just wanted to get rid of more of my stuff as if my whole life in Michigan wasn't enough.

Anyway OurDad was working and GreatMom was lounging around with me. Some days I wonder if our parents have any idea how much they are confusing the GirlChild and me.

Or perhaps GreatMom had this Father's day revenge planned since....

Looking out for OurDad

Were not sure yet how we'll be referring to OurDad's new school on our anonymous blog (so he doesn't get fired), but we have been doing few searches around the web to get the scoop on the school. One thing's for sure it's a jock school. It's not a Div 1 school so we figure (hope) they really are student athletes. I checked to see if they had a skating team, but no such luck. I just hope he doesn't want us to go watch the water polo matches with him.

Speaking of water polo we found these posts the other day at the rate your students blog about administration-sponsored student-faculty get togethers. As of yet we can't verify whether or not either is about OurDad's new school. However, if they are there could be trouble.

We see several problems with these supposed get to know your prof schemes.

When we get to Missouri OurDad will be too busy unpaking our stuff to be helping students move into their dorm rooms. They are big strong kids their parents can carry their stuff up to their rooms.

I'm not too sure GreatMom would like it if OurDad attended the new-student pool party, but I'm sure he'd love it.

Although we're big Harry Potter fans I don't really care if the students think he's more like Professor Snape or Professor Lupin. I happen to know he's a squib.

I'm quite sure GreatMom would not be happy to learn that we had moved to Missouri so that OurDad could host a faculty cast for a sex ed rendition of the Hollywood Stars. I'm not sure if they'd give him a script, but I'm sure he'd rely on all those sick Philip Roth books like The Breast, or The Professor of Desire for material.

I have no idea what he's gotten himself into, but please please God whatever don't let it make him even crazier.

Books Have Gone to his Head or This Move is Driving him Crazy

In addition to all the things OurDad is trying to get done around the house so we can sell it and move OurDad has been trying to prepare the BoyChlid and me for life in Missouri. And it's working. We like Tom Sawyer. OurDad said Mark Twain wrote another book about Tom Sawyer and we'd get to read it some day. Instantly Missouri sounded like a better place.

"Dad, when's the next Tom Sawyer book come out?" I thought Missouri had it's own redneck Harry Potter and JK Rowling!

OurDad said, "I'm sorry sweety, but he stopped writing books about Tom and his friends along time ago."

"Deary Mark Train lived about a hundred years ago. He's not going to be writing anymore books," GreatMom tried to clarify. I didn't think that could be true; Tom wasn't a caveman, but if mom says so. Then OurDad corrected her. "What are you talking about that old Tralfamadorian has lots of books left in him. "

"Tralfa what--"

"They are an alien race of time travelers." Now the BoyChild was interested, and before he realized his mistake he had asked. "What's Tralfa whaters got to do with Mark Twain?" I hit him. Now we were in for some crazy lecture about literature, but this time with extraterrestrials. It went something like this.

Mark Twain is just a fake author name, a nomdeplume, for Samuel Longhorne Clemens which is probably not his real name either. OurDad claims he's the same person who writes under the name Kurt Vonnegut Jr.--the junior part being a nice touch to throw people off-- and Kilgore Trout. Vonnegut, or whoever he is, in his 1969 book Slaughterhouse-Five described his race, the Tralfamadorians. Thus, according to OurDad, exposing just how the same man could write two collections of books with a span of one hundred years separating them. OurDad says the evidence is in the writing and subject matter: both writers have novels that depend heavily on a very similar use of the first person narrative, and both authors rage against technology and man's inhumanity to man. They both rely in one liners and were essayists at heart. And they both were fascinated with time travel, Twain's Connecticut Yankee and Vonnegut's Timequake and Slaughterhouse-Five. What's known of both men's personalities fits the hypothesis too, both were bipolar subject to massive bouts of depression. Probably because they knew humanities rotten future. But most of all look at them!



Finally GreatMom had had enough, "so basically you're saying that Kurt Twain, or is it Mark Vonnegut, is proof of extraterrestrial intelligence."

"Yeah, pretty much. It's not as exciting as Star Wars, but humans can't write like that guy."

At times I think we're headed to Misery not Missouri.

OurDad's not that Bad or Freak Show at the WoundTight Township Library

Recently someone suggested that we are a bit hard on OurDad. It's true, at times we see parenting that's beyond even OurDad, in fact beyond explanation. Here's an example of what we won't be missing about Michigan's WoundTight Township. Thanks JS. However, these "parents" just give OurDad ideas.

Recently we were forced to go to the WoundTight Township Public Library to do our homework-- where it was figured we would stop whining and complaining about doing said homework being that the public library is a public place. It was pretty horrible to sit in the library and do homework-- no computer time and certainly no Star Wars books (see Four Legs Good, Star Wars Baaaad). OurDad was being so grumpy about "homework" that I don't think even George Orwell would have cheered him up.

Anyway there we were doing our homework, at the library, and soon we realized we were not alone and that it could have been much much worse.

This WoundTight mom wore an angry scowl and black unitard to showoff her surgically exaggerated bubble butt and boobjob. I first I didn't realize it was her costume as she played the part of super villainess in a public plot of pathetic pomposity. She had marched her son to the public library to finish his Science Fair project, but clearly she was there more for the public part than the library part.

The GirlChild and I were there because it is all to well understood that making a spectacle of ourselves in public is VERBOTEN, and carries serious consequences, the likes of which have only been vaguely explained.

However this kid and Villainess mom were all about the spectacle. The first hint was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume?!?! Why in the hell was that kid wearing a costume at the library? But it didn't stop there. There was whining, shouting and as the villainess became ever more enraged she'd loose her grasp of English slipping back into her native tongue to berate the ninja turtle son in one of the many foreign dialects you're likely to hear here in the ethnically diverse WoundTight Township. God knows what wretched foreign curses we heard that day. All for the purpose of gaining the sympathy of the WoundTight Public Library staff. What a dedicated mother she was and what a brat he was, and what attention they got. We couldn't take our eyes off them-- no one could. Staff members were consulted as to how one could finish a project with such a brat.

Finally GreatMom, unbewitched by the spectacle, reminded us it's not polite to stare at people with disabilities. We left gladly so we could finish our homework at home.

Whatever the deal with the costumes was it's now been added to OurDad's repertoire as the all time most frightening homework threat. "If you don't want to do your homework here, I'll just hurry upstairs and get your costumes and we can go to the library."

Thanks a lot, you freak WoundTight family as if OurDad didn't have enough ways to annoy, embarrass and harass us.

Please note that the clientele of the WoundTight Township Public Library is not a reflection on the staff or quality of the Woundtight Township Public Library. It's one of the nations top 100 public libraries, and we shall miss it dearly.

OurDad's Biking Clinic or Skidmarks for Boy Scouts

OurDad a has out done himself this time--he nearly got us kicked out of the BSA.

My Boy Scout Troop is planning a cycling trip up the west coast of Michigan. It'll be a great trip-- too bad we won't have time to go. Anyway, they know OurDad's like Mr. Mountain biker so they asked him to put on a biking clinic. It was great-- at first.

All the guys brought their bikes up to the school where we meet, and OurDad fixed practically all of them. Then he had to take it a bit further and talk about equipment. He brought this old helmet to show everyone how a helmet really can prevent head injuries. His is covered with cracks and scratches from landing on his head after bike wrecks, and he's "no worse for the wear." I for one am not too convinced. He talked about nutrition and hydration, and showed everyone his Camelbak. And then he brought out the bike shorts-- the girly racer boy kind that look like they'd fit the GirlChild. Oh, I can't tell you how bad that was, but it got worse, he showed everyone the chamois. That's that padding in the bike shorts for your butt, but no one was listening at this point because they were all to grossed-out by the skidmarks! But then it got even worse-- he explained that everyone has skidmarks in their bike shorts because you're not supposed to wear underwear under your bike shorts.

We were informed that in the BSA the boys and the adults are to wear underwear at all times.

I don't think we'll be invited on any more cycling outings with the scouts.

Perhaps OurDad was thinking if we got kicked out of the Boy Scouts it would make leaving Michigan easier. Wrong!

It works for removing paint too -- OurDads Mother's Day

Maybe OurDad has got this WWTSD thing down. That's, What Would Tom Sawyer Do?

Yesterday was Mother's Day and all great Mom wanted was to see us work. Ok it was her special day, and it was only one day.

She wanted me to finish my Picasso reproduction, which was late. In fact, OurDad said if I didn't finish it I'd be placed in a third grade art class when I started fourth grade at my new school in St. Louis. She wanted the BoyChild to clean his room-- no small feat considering the four thousand Lego pieces he uses for carpet. And all she wanted OurDad to do was power wash the deck. She swore, no chocolates or flowers. I made a card for her at school, and I let the BoyChild and OurDad glom on to it. Hey at least they did the work GreatMom wanted-- sort of.

First of all I want to state that I did finish my Picasso, and that he was crazy, just crazy. Look at this. Very inappropriate. The BoyChild he cleaned more than half his room, which was actually more than expected. So basically we did our part for Mother's Day. And that deck is totally cleaned and ready for a new coat of stain, but OurDad didn't do all the work.

GreatMom had borrowed a huge gas-powered power washer so OurDad could help get the house ready to sell. It just blasts the stain right off the deck with a jet of water like some military issue squirt gun. It looked really cool, and OurDad made using it look like so much fun GreatMom had to try it, and he let her finish off the deck.

It was Mother's Day and OurDad had her outside power washing the deck. Tom Sawyer's got nothing on OurDad!

WWTSD

What Would Tom Sawyer Do? Well it sure wouldn't be asking OurDad to fix the school teacher.

It's no sooner after OurDad decides to move us all to Missouri, or Missoura, than he's cramming Mark Twain down our throats. What's next: biographies of Harry Truman or the memoirs of Laura Engles?

Anyway, with just a few weeks of school left you'd think he realize I can sweat it out, but noooo, he's got to try and make it easier for me just because he's feeling guilty about becoming our personal Harry Truman by dropping the big one on our family. He's gone and complained about my ultra hard teacher, Dr. Barbarian, to the principal. This is only going to make school worse, if that's possible.

It's not like Dr. B. suddenly started throwing around C's and D's to kids, including me, in the Woundtight School district's Magnet program. It's all stick and no carrot from that lady, at least my other teachers are really cool. What a reward for doing more than our peers around the district. Did I mention that my report card, which would be straight A's at any other school in the district says nothing about Magnet or Advanced, so when I move to Missouri I guess I'll be placed in the remedial courses with kids that say Missoura.

OurDad to the rescue. Yesterday he spent an hour and a half busting the principals balls just for me. Please with all this Mark Twain stuff he's talking up, you'd think OurDad would have come up with something a little more clever and anonymous. Now I gotta watch my back because Dr. Barbarian is gonna be gunning for me.

Any ideas? What would Tom Sawyer Do? Please note hooky too obvious to be an option.

OurDad actually got a Job-- a real Job!

In St. Louis! We're moving.

He actually called our bluff. We never expected he'd actually get a job. You may have seen my comments on his work habits entitled They Pay him for this?

Somehow, someway, he's convinced Unnamed U that his minimalist teaching philosophy is the new thing in education-- let the students do the work. Whoever heard of such a thing-- students working?! The teacher is supposed to teach the students. He thinks they should teach themselves.

I think I know why he wants to be a "college" teacher... But did he ask us? Noooooo. He just did it all on his own.

St. Louis? I should have known. He could never give up that Cardinals hat and cheer for the Lions, Tigers, Pistons or Wings.

St. Louis? Do you know how hot it gets in St. Louis? He goes on and on about global warming and he wants to move south? I just don't understand OurDad.

St. Louis? I'm not sure they even have the internet there.

St. Louis? Has OurDad thought this out? No. Do we know where we're going to live? No. Do we know where we are going to school? No. Does GreatMom have a job there? No. Are we going to be able to sell our Michigan home before he starts work in the Fall? Not in this market. Can we afford two mortgages? No. Is there a scout troop? Is there a skating rink? Are there soccer teams? Are there kids that like Legos? Will we rent? House or apartment? Will we live with grandma and grandpa, and if so which ones? But OurDad has a job.

I'm expecting to see a Mission Accomplished banner on the house any day now.

Why didn't the Old CC hire him before this disaster?

Belated Earth Day

You may not know this, but OurDad has been known to teach Environmental Science at the Old CC. He's very concerned about the environment we live in. In fact he's so into it he celebrated Earth Day this year by waiting until after Earth Day to spread fertilizer with herbicide all over the lawn we play on!

To OurDad's credit he usually forgoes the herbicides and pesticides and just over loads the lawn with nitrogen based fertilizer, but with the big move he seems to be fixing things around the house, throwing out anything he thinks can fit into the local landfill and trying to make the lawn look extra good with no regard to the environment. Good luck being a stand in for Al Gore now. All so someone else can enjoy our Michigan home.

Who cares about the environment when there's a house to be sold.

OurDad's not exactly this guy, but I could see him singing this way if the mood stuck. I happen to like toilet paper so I'm hoping not.

Not sure what's up

Finally we get to use the computer. Sorry we havn't posted in a couple days. I'm not sure what's going on, but OurDad and GreatMom have both been hogging the computer. I'm not sure what they are up too. Even poetry seems to have taken a back seat this week. And just when I was starting to get into this Poetry Month thing.

Last Friday OurDad took us to a poetry contest he helped judge. The BoyChild played his Gameboy, and tried to pretend he was not paying attention. I sat right up front with OurDad. Some of them were good, and OurDad didn't even act goofy. He was all serious Judging poetry. It was strange.

I even started a poem about OurDad's pancakes. OurDad makes the best pancakes in the whole world.

Anyway The BoyChild and I are on spring break this week, and OurDad and GreatMom just decided we'd run to St. Louis for a couple days to see Grandma and Grandma and Grandpa and Grandpa.

Easter = Sex?

Will someone please tell OurDad Easter is not about sex-- so we can start our Easter Egg Hunt.

We got up nice and early for our Egg Hunt and OurDad got all mad. "So if I put a few hard boiled eggs on the bus you'd never be late for school again, right?"

We tried bargaining for the plastic ones with chocolates inside when OurDad asked, "What do eggs have have to do with Jesus anyway?"

We didn't know. We just wanted to start our Egg Hunt, but he wouldn't get out of bed, and we can't start with out him.

"If you can tell me what eggs have to do with Jesus, I'll get up." We didn't know, and he knew we didn't know. We'd been set up again-trapped, and if we wanted an Egg Hunt we'd have to endure another of OurDad's lectures. There was no point delaying the inevitable so we asked, "Gee dad what do eggs have to do with Jesus?"

"I'm so glad you asked," he said, and we braced for the worst. "Nothing! What is an egg?"

The GirlGhild answered, "A baby chicken."

"Right, if it's a chicken's egg," he corrected. "So an egg, a baby bird, is a fertility symbol."

I was happy to leave it at that and start our Egg Hunt, but the GirlChild had to ask, "What's fertility?" Now I was ready to go back to bed. I almost hit her, and I should have.

"Fertility, it's about making babies so Easter is about sex," he said.

"No it's not," we said in unison as my stomach began to churn. Making babies eeew gross.

Oh you don't think so eeh? So what's a bunny got to do with Jesus?" He'd done it again.

"We don't care! Can't we just find the eggs?" we begged.

It's another fertility symbol--bunnies make lots of babies that means they have lots of sex." Gross making babies and sex, eeeew. I started to break out into a sweat. I couldn't make him stop. I was getting sick even before I got to gorge on chocolates. He was ruining Easter, just so he could stay in bed.

Of course it was 6 am.

That's Our Dad...

More like Jack Frost

OurDad told us about his favorite spring poem the other day. I think I'm starting to get this poetry stuff now. This is just so fitting for our current freezing Easter weather.


Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

 -- Robert Frost

No kidding-- nothing gold can stay-- not when it's frozen! I think OurDad's got the poet's first name wrong. This must be the Jack Frost anthem! Crazy!

Probably not the place to start.

Ok even OurDad says this one's a bit too much. I think you'd need two Ph D's to understand T.S Eliot's The Waste Land. Really OurDad's got one and he doesn't get this poem either.

If you ask me it's all wrong from the start. April is the cruelest month? I thought maybe this Eliot guy was from the southern hemisphere where the seasons are all reversed, but OurDad told us that he's from our old home town, St. Louis, but that he moved to England. What a turncoat! The snow is gone, Easter is coming, it's warm again, and most important the Cardinals are back for opening day in April. What kind of St. Louisan doesn't like April and the return of our beloved Cardinal baseball.

OurDad tried to explain something about irony, but I think the guy's off his rocker.

The poem's about a thousand lines long, but you can see where it's going right away so I just copied the first few lines. Oh and I took out all the crazy Latin and Greek at the beginning too. Crazy, just crazy.

The Waste Land APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

What Kind of Sick Joke is This?!

OurDad just told us it's National Poetry Month! Even in Canada!

A whole month?!

Do you know how long a month is? Can you even remember what you were doing 4 weeks ago? I'll bet it wasn't poetry.

April is the cruelest month...

In an Ideal World They'd Pay Us for This

Yesterday OurDad was trying to tell us about this Philip Roth book he's reading. Usually we just remind him were ten and eight, and some times he stops, but something in yesterday's trip to lit land with OurDad caught my attention---Money.

So this book is set in Prague, Czechoslovakia during some war that was only fought during the winter. It's a totalitarian state where half the country is paid the spy on the other half. Next thing we know OurDad is off on some rant about the President and phone records and the FBI and the Attorney General and 1984 bla, bla, bla... The book is called The Prague Orgy and he thinks the President's domestic spying is obscene. I was giving him a couple minutes to get it out of his system when it dawned on me that maybe this spying thing could work here in the good old US of A.

This meant I'd have to ask OurDad about the book to learn just how this getting paid to spy on people worked, thus risking an hour long dissertation. If I could just make it sound like I was interested in Prague and this totalitarian stuff and not current events it might not be so bad.

"So dad how could people get paid to spy on each other--in the book?", I asked. It worked he was so happy that I'd actually asked a question about literature that he forgot all about Present Bush.

My ears are still a bit sore, but I think it was worth it. It boiled down to this. There were two writer friends. One was a good writer and the other "couldn't describe a shoelace." Well the state government was interested in what the good writer was doing, because people listen to good writers. So the government asked the bad writer to file reports on the good writer, but it was a disaster. The state couldn't make sense of the bad writer's reports. Worse yet the state thought he was faking it to protect his friend. The bad writer went to his friend for help, and the good writer agreed to write the reports on himself! Everyone was happy; the friends split the money and the government got excellent reports, but this too was a problem when the state wanted to promote the bad writer to spy on more important people and to train new recruits because his reports were so fantastic.

This spying bit basically ends with the good writer having to teach the bad writer how to write to keep the government from discovering the whole scam. Eventually the good writer broke off the whole thing by telling the bad writer, "How can you ever become a great writer if you are such a bad spy?"

Hey I think this Philip Roth guy is comparing writers to spies-- More like peeping Toms knowing the books he writes.

Anyway this whole spying thing sounds better than groveling for an allowance.

The GirlChild and I do hereby pledge to provide any and all information on OurDad to the satisfaction any state government willing to pay us the sum of one million dollars.

President Bush if you are reading this we'll be expecting a wire transfer soon.

A Swiss bank account and I'll never have to clean my room again.

OurDad was right the Vice President is Evil-- Thanks YouTube

Tomorrow is my last day as a Cub Scout. No I'm not quitting. I'm crossing over to Boy Scouts and I'll be awarded the highest Cub Scout honor, the Arrow of Light. OurDad will be crossing over too. He's been the Den Leader for five years now, and I think he's more excited about Boy Scouts than I am. He's always said this is his chance to finish being a Scout too.

Anyway I'm not sure OurDad has been the typical Den leader. case in point: our Citizen badge. We had to learn all about our great country including who the important leaders were. We all knew who the President was, George Bush, and our Governor here in Michigan, Jennifer Granholm. OurDad says she's the sexiest Governor in America.

Well, that was about all we knew. So when OurDad asked the Den who the Vice President was I thought I'd be funny and yelled out, "Doctor Evil."

OurDad looked stunned for a second, I thought I might be in trouble, and then he beamed at me with pride. Not just any pride mind you, his eyes sparkled and he got that teary-eyed faraway look reserved for the fathers of Super Bowl Champions. I thought he was going to hug me in front of the other boys--thank God he didn't. I could even hear theme music coming from somewhere. I still can figure out that one. And then he said, "YOU'RE RIGHT!"

Every one was laughing at what each of us had said. In that moment we were transformed into some great Father-Son tag-team comedy act. It was great. We had bonded like few fathers and sons throughout history. Then I noticed he wasn't laughing, and then he said, "No really you're right. The Vice President really is Doctor Evil." Then every one stopped laughing, and I was no longer the envy of all the other boys. No longer was I a kid lucky enough to have a cool dad, a dad with true comic timing. A dad so funny that no one would even dare look at a milk carton in his presence. It was all an accident. He was just... well, him, OurDad again.

Eventually we got him to admit that a man named Dick Cheney was the Vice President, and he kept insisting that he was like Doctor Evil, but no body bought it.

Anyway it turns out OurDad and I were right, well almost right. Look what I found on YouTube!

It was so funny, and for that one moment we were both so proud of each other.
I just hope he's as proud tomorrow as I become a Boy Scout.

Bloody Knuckles

No OurDad didn't get into a fight. GreatMom would have done more than bloody his knuckles anyway. He fixed a flat tire. Nothing extraordinary there., but then there is the matter of how the tire got flat in the first place.

You've seen those big rocks placed at the corners of parking lot islands just in case the curb isn't deterrent enough... Thats right he cut one a bit short--way short. That's one more dent in the Ranger's collection, and then there was of the flat tire-- torn out side wall. No plugging that one. $85 bucks for a new tire and to hear OurDad tell it, a pound of flesh to put on the spare.

Ok maybe scraped up knuckles aren't exactly a pound of flesh, but OurDad made it sound like switching out the flat for the spare was a Herculean feat since all the bolts were rusted-- hence the bloody knuckles. I'll bet he looked pretty funny swearing away from beneath the Ranger in the fitness center parking lot. 175K miles on salty MI roads breeds a lot of rust, but that Ranger is still going strong, for now...

Our Dad doesn't seem to mind all the dents, but after yesterdays driving we're beginning to wonder if these aren't self inflicted wounds. Is OurDad trying to tell us something?