I just finished a two-day road trip with my dad, my dogs, and a 14′ canoe. (Just delivering the water vessel to my mom, not actually canoeing with a half-deaf 72-year-old and two pit bulls.)

Why would I subject myself to such torture, you ask?

Well, because of these conversational gems, of course:

Dad: (pointing at a sign) Ah, ‘Welcome Center, 1 1/2 miles’, where I have changed my pants in the parking lot.

Dad: (to a car which was clearly pulled over for speeding) That’ll teach you to smoke dope!

Dad: That road is configured just the way I’d nightmared it.

Dad: What time do you want to get up?

Me: Eight.

Dad: Ha.

Me: I know you’re gonna wake up at 4:30, but I’m telling you that if you move around, my dogs’ll think it’s time to get up and I’ll be pissed. You better lie there and practice some meditation.

Dad: Medication?

Me: Meditation.

Dad: Medication?

Me: You better lie there and do nothing, old man. Don’t move. Meditate.

Dad: I always medicate.

Dad: If anything’s consistent about Shakespeare, it’s silly fucking plots.

As we ate breakfast in a diner:

Dad: (looking through his eyebrows at me) We may have to make several stops after this.

Me: I don’t wanna talk about it.

Dad: OK, I’ll give you the short version. (ad alta voce) IT’S DIURETIC DAY. That’s all I’ll say.