"An oahdeh? Isn't that a farewell?"
Kev:
"Nope, but that'll be the first line in my post."
My dad.
What can be said? Let me ask him. He's watching the news. We're trying to find out what delegates are. OK. Mike Huckabee finally shut up. I'll someday discover why, exactly, these fools keep running even when they've lost.
Kev:
"So pa...what do you want said about you?"
Kev's dad:
"Wahuh! You can tell any of those fools that want to read about it, that if they want to spend 24 hours in my shoes, then they can see exactly the HELL I live...what I go through just to...what I go through just to get through each day. What lies I have to tell myself just to keep my spirits up, so I don't collapse into a sniveling pile of self-pity. Slimy pile of...thick, gooey snot.
"But on the bright side...I do have boots that go up close to my knee caps, so I can...survive another day...of snot-stomping. It's pretty much that elevator's (Note: he apparently is now talking about church) awfully slow, you push the button, waiting all day for it, almost making you late for church, but then when you try to walk through it, it slams shut super fast, at super-sonic speed. The pulleys are super slow, and the door's super fast.
"And then some fool...gets up on the upper level pushing the button, in direct competition to my button pushing. (Note: that's me, but he's wrong, I actually hold the door open.) The elevator just sits idle, not knowing what to do. Until one of us gets tired of pushing the button or the church bell rings. Then you hear footsteps walking away, and you think, "My ride's coming now!" Then to step through the door just to have it almost smash you!
"Either that or take those 17 stairs up to the second level at a 30-degree incline...miss one step, you're going down. Those stairs suck. The rail is too high. Going up, you can take them doggy-style on all fours, but don't try taking them on all fours on the way down...you'll end up taking a nose-dive."
My pa has a tough life. At his job, they routinely have him repair machines which can best be described as giant, open blenders. He has to balance on a 2x4 walkway- i.e., one 2x4 placed across the "blender bowl" top- he rigged up himself to repair a water spout at the top that's required for the "blending." This is something around 40 feet up.
The bonus- the reason they keep him around- is that a normal person is perfectly willing to do this, but my dad excels in that he is willing to do it while it's operating. He's a real doer. In fact, he fixed the toilet at our church a few weeks back. Pastor almost peed his pants. Then Kile II shoved his way past and was the first to use it.
Then he drives to and from work every day, ferrying my mom in. She blabs the whole time. "Oh, I'm knitting socks; no, they won't be horrifically uncomfortable! Hahah! Why would you be predisposed to think they would be horrifically uncomfortable? I'll make you a pair, so you can wear them everyday and see how comfortable they are!!!"
Now, my pa might not be right on everything, but what's important is that he ...uh...errm...well, he is a saved man. That's one for the cause.
Also, he's got half of a brain, at the least. Plus, he got me started cooking. Even though he made horrible food. I mean, whew...that was some bad food. I don't know how I lived off of that food. Don't get me wrong, it was alright, but...you get tired of potatoes, gravy, corn or green beans, and a roast. After 483 consecutive days of the only differential being biscuits or no biscuits- I'm talking having this stuff 3 meals a day- you get really bitter.
(Today I discovered that cooking is really fun when you have things to cook, but when you don't have food to cook, or have too many options, it gets frustrating.)
We used to ride our bikes together. That was in the olden days when the crime rate was only 95% of what it is today. We lived in a very bad part of town. Once, we got robbed at gun point. Or, rather, the guy had his gun, but it was stuck in his underwear. Ask me sometime and I'll tell you the story. I also almost got ran over once. Came very close to losing my life. I hate tricycles and three-year-olds to this day.
We also...uhh...well, we make soap together. Why is it so hard to think of good things about people? For example, the only good I can think of my mom is that she A: isn't evil and B: gave birth to me and C: raised me.
Let's end this post quickly. With a...uhh...picture! If I can find my darn camera! Now I'm angry!
Yes, my parents- most likely my dad- recently purchased 50 pounds of onions. I know what I'm bringing to share at Wednesday night study this week!
(Note, I am not really bringing them- if you want any, uh, drop me a line, I'll be glad to bring them in...but let's not drop onion skins all over the floor.)
No comments:
Post a Comment