Say who is this typing man?

I don't even know, people. They let anyone write on the internet nowadays.

Jan 10, 2013

Soylent Green is People

I was taught growing up not to trust authority.

That's not really true... I was taught that the truth is flexible.

No, wait. I guess what I was taught was that my dad is full of crap.

My dad has a really inappropriate sense of humor that he has passed down to me - which, combined with the fact I'm his only baby girl (or at least, I better be his only baby girl), means I get to be on the inside of a lot of his inside jokes. Being a true incarnation of an internet troll, however, my dad doesn't always let me be on the inside. Here are some of the more notable jokes my dad has pulled at my (and my siblings') expense:
  • I was convinced that MLK stood for Milk day instead of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Dad said "It's a day we honor those in daily service to the community, like milkmen and postal workers." When I asked why they (they being the holiday and calendar people) left out the "I" in milk, he said, "They didn't have space for vowels; it's like with license tags!" I completely bought this for years (like, until I was a preteen).
  • My big brother, when first learning to speak, was left with my dad without (mentally) adult supervision. This was a mistake. My dad taught BigBro that the word for an article of clothing was a car, and that you drove a cap around to get to where you're going.
  • Last year, Dad went to dinner with 2min2late and SLaw (his wife, my Sis-in-Law), and got them to believe that the way cucumbers are cut for salads enhances their "fibrous" qualities - namely, they have ridges on the side to help scrape out your colon on the way down. The restaurants are asked to do this by the health board.
  • He duped all three of us kids into trying a mystery food at a fair that he swore was "like a potato chip." It wasn't like a potato chip. At all. I think it was some kind of animal skin that had been fried. Or maybe soylent green. If soylent green wasn't green, but instead some kind of beige-y color. 
Like my brothers' various pranks, my dad's don't always pull off quite right. For instance, one April Fool's day, Dad was going to pull an awesome prank - he was going to pretend like we had to walk to school from about a half mile down the road. Since we live in the South, that's a bigger deal than if we lived in, say, a city where there are blocks and such. This would be a short hike with a 20-40 lb bookbag on the side of the road in grassy, treacherous footing before crossing the street twice with no street guard or designated crossing area.

The plan failed because he tried to keep me in the car while kicking out 2min2late (BigBro was already in college).

I was totally for this plan, once I understood what his gesticulating meant.

Anyway, his wild hand motions tipped my brother off that he was getting duped, and he lunged back into the car right when my dad almost had the door closed.

So, so close.

Anyway, my dad and I share this method of coping with... everything, by making horrifically inappropriate jokes about it. I tend to just call him up and share whatever omg-what's-wrong-with-you comment I have during the day, but Dad has this great way of just saying whatever it is out loud in public places or tweeting it to the world (you can find him at @johnms1). Like that time one winter we went to a Chinese restaurant that had all kinds of interesting, non-mainstream food on the buffet and my dad kept making really really loud "Fa ra ra ra ra" jokes whenever the waiters walked by (because he's also a little bit racist, in that Avenue Q kind of way).

This is really kind of awesome though. Not racism. That's not awesome. But being that kind of "I don't give a crap" courageous. 

And it's a fantastic coping mechanism, let me tell you. One my entire family shares. One of the things going on with my life right now that's affecting everything I want to write about is my mom's going through breast cancer. Or however that works grammatically. She is suffering from breast cancer? Her boobies have staged a revolution with the help of mercenary cells that immediately turned on their employers.

ANYWAY, when we were waiting on results to find out the extent of the cancerous object, 2min2late was talking to me about what to do in case Mom needed to get a mastectomy (the part where they take off a boob and you don't get it back [not that there should be a return policy{but they could leave something, right? like a squeaky toy. But I bet that would be unfortunate in case of overenthusiastic labrador. I don't even know, okay? (coping mechanism. Told you)}]). (And actually, I started writing this forever ago, so now she's all the way through the chemo portion of her treatment, the lump responded really well, and we already know she's just getting a lumpectomy and not a chest chop.) So we were discussing what we'd do if our mom ended up a lovely lopsided lady, and 2min2late pipes up with this gem:

"I'm going to draw a sympathy card for Dad mourning the loss of Mom's boobs."

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, I present your next money-making scheme.

1 comment:

  1. First of all, for the record, I was there at the cucumber-is-cut-for-fiber-effects dinner and it was a hoot! 2min2late & SLaw did fall for it. They should have known better knowing whose mouth this bit of wisdom was coming from.

    Secondly, I love the various bits about my long-gone-never-to-be seen-again (I hope) cancer. Even tho I'm a stickler for anatomically correct nouns such as breast instead of the B word, gotta admit "boobies have staged a revolution..." is good.


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