(This post was originally written back when faux journalist JimmyJeffGuckertGannon the 1st was moving out of the private sector, then moving back in, then out, then in, a slight adjustment, then out, one more slight adjustment, then in and then a sort of upward thrusting action, then out, followed by a very sweet question about why Hillary Clinton was divorced from reality but still married to her...wait, back in, then out, then in again with a determined move to the right, a pause, then a circular grind to the left, then...yes, why was Hillary still with...a very hard slap on the bacon box, followed by an 'oh, daddy' and a "horses scare you, don't they, daddy? big nasty horses...giddyap! Git! Ah woo!!!!" Like I was saying, the following was written during that whole Day Pass thing. I told you cash! Cash!
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Having the family eat dinner together is a sacred tradition that I will never treat lightly. Perhaps my feelings about this subject stem from my own childhood when dear father would regale my siblings and me with tales of how each of us would pay dearly for any attempts at conversation during our evening meal. Since then, much has been forgiven between father and I, as my lawyers so elegantly pointed out in the restraining order. Love bears all things, and what it won’t bear can often be chillingly detailed in legal language.
So it is with some trepidation that I face the music of my own family, as I build a blood-legacy based upon trust and respect, with just a dash of plain old-fashioned fealty for me, the King of the Castle. My wife, however, keeps asking me impertinent questions, i.e. ‘Did you get a job today? Did you even look for a job?’ It was during one of these assaults on my, oh I don’t know, sovereignty, when Randy, an eleven year-old tow headed pup, interrupted and spoke:
“Mr. Dad, seeing as how many in our family seem divorced from reality, how do you plan to engage in meaningful dialogue with those who use divisive, attacking language?”
I replied by first thanking Randy for his insightful question while at the same time serving myself a second helping of pasta. Who says men can’t multi-task? “I think what Randy—do you mind if I call you ‘Spike?—anyway, what Spike is suggesting gets to the heart of the matter. How can we hope to communicate, when the gulf between us is in a cavern, and there are no tours? How indeed can we as a family ever hope to achieve…” It was then that my wife began her second assault upon my throne.
“Excuse me, who is Randy? And why did he just call you Mr. Dad?”
I looked over at Spike to see if he wanted to field this one, but he had already gone back to his lap top. Kids today: what are you going to do? Anyway, time passed, and my darling bride began to scowl. Scowling, I helpfully reminded her, is the anti-botox.
I am not suggesting that my wife is "pesky" but she doesn’t always know when to let things go. Raising her eyebrows, another facial gesture that could come back to haunt her in her decaying years, she spoke again, “I repeat: who is this kid and why did he just call you Mr. Dad? And what are those laminated credentials doing around his neck?”
I explained that Spike was with our family on a day-pass, hardly unique in this hectic and suspicious world. Next to him sat Dustin, who had a hard pass but then lost it at school. Dustin did not look up from his Social Security Study Guide. Scraps, our family dog, was chewing idly on his evening pass. Things looked pretty normal as far as I could see. I asked for more garlic bread. You could have heard a pin drop, if I hadn’t spilt so much pasta on the floor back when I was multi-tasking earlier.
“Who are you trying to kid here?” my wife asked. “You bring in some ringer, some adolescent I don’t even know—does he even have experience being a kid?”
Without looking up Spike responded, “I went to a “How to be a Kid” seminar in Thousand Oaks. Cost me fifty bucks.” Man, I liked him. I vowed right then that I would do everything in my power to get him a hard pass, so help me God. All I could add to his powerful testimony was that I was still waiting for the garlic bread.
“Allow me to review here,” said my beloved. I was pretty sure I had her back on her heels at this point. “I ask a few tough questions about your job status which you don’t even have a response for, then some “guest” son lobs you a softball query, and I haven’t even gotten around to who Dustin is, and this is how we operate now? Fake kids, fake questions, and still you have no job? What are you going to do next, run for President?”
You never know where ideas are going to come from, but when they arrive the trick is to be ready, to spread your wings and fly. Now if only I can get Spike into the Press Room…
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Having the family eat dinner together is a sacred tradition that I will never treat lightly. Perhaps my feelings about this subject stem from my own childhood when dear father would regale my siblings and me with tales of how each of us would pay dearly for any attempts at conversation during our evening meal. Since then, much has been forgiven between father and I, as my lawyers so elegantly pointed out in the restraining order. Love bears all things, and what it won’t bear can often be chillingly detailed in legal language.
So it is with some trepidation that I face the music of my own family, as I build a blood-legacy based upon trust and respect, with just a dash of plain old-fashioned fealty for me, the King of the Castle. My wife, however, keeps asking me impertinent questions, i.e. ‘Did you get a job today? Did you even look for a job?’ It was during one of these assaults on my, oh I don’t know, sovereignty, when Randy, an eleven year-old tow headed pup, interrupted and spoke:
“Mr. Dad, seeing as how many in our family seem divorced from reality, how do you plan to engage in meaningful dialogue with those who use divisive, attacking language?”
I replied by first thanking Randy for his insightful question while at the same time serving myself a second helping of pasta. Who says men can’t multi-task? “I think what Randy—do you mind if I call you ‘Spike?—anyway, what Spike is suggesting gets to the heart of the matter. How can we hope to communicate, when the gulf between us is in a cavern, and there are no tours? How indeed can we as a family ever hope to achieve…” It was then that my wife began her second assault upon my throne.
“Excuse me, who is Randy? And why did he just call you Mr. Dad?”
I looked over at Spike to see if he wanted to field this one, but he had already gone back to his lap top. Kids today: what are you going to do? Anyway, time passed, and my darling bride began to scowl. Scowling, I helpfully reminded her, is the anti-botox.
I am not suggesting that my wife is "pesky" but she doesn’t always know when to let things go. Raising her eyebrows, another facial gesture that could come back to haunt her in her decaying years, she spoke again, “I repeat: who is this kid and why did he just call you Mr. Dad? And what are those laminated credentials doing around his neck?”
I explained that Spike was with our family on a day-pass, hardly unique in this hectic and suspicious world. Next to him sat Dustin, who had a hard pass but then lost it at school. Dustin did not look up from his Social Security Study Guide. Scraps, our family dog, was chewing idly on his evening pass. Things looked pretty normal as far as I could see. I asked for more garlic bread. You could have heard a pin drop, if I hadn’t spilt so much pasta on the floor back when I was multi-tasking earlier.
“Who are you trying to kid here?” my wife asked. “You bring in some ringer, some adolescent I don’t even know—does he even have experience being a kid?”
Without looking up Spike responded, “I went to a “How to be a Kid” seminar in Thousand Oaks. Cost me fifty bucks.” Man, I liked him. I vowed right then that I would do everything in my power to get him a hard pass, so help me God. All I could add to his powerful testimony was that I was still waiting for the garlic bread.
“Allow me to review here,” said my beloved. I was pretty sure I had her back on her heels at this point. “I ask a few tough questions about your job status which you don’t even have a response for, then some “guest” son lobs you a softball query, and I haven’t even gotten around to who Dustin is, and this is how we operate now? Fake kids, fake questions, and still you have no job? What are you going to do next, run for President?”
You never know where ideas are going to come from, but when they arrive the trick is to be ready, to spread your wings and fly. Now if only I can get Spike into the Press Room…
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You're fucking crazy, man. You're a genius. Hurry up and get famous.
--Oscar