1,700 Miles with Dad

Dad and I drove to Massachusetts and back for Christmas. You’re welcome.

Dad: (apropos of I don’t know what) I am one clever son of a bitch.

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Dad: (recalling an acquaintance) What was her name? Siduri? No, that was the barmaid from Gilgamesh.

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munchies-cheese-fix
Dad: Stuff is fuckin delicious.

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Dad: (on the trip north) My ass hurts. Not the ass. The muscles underneath the ass. The ass muscles.

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Dad: Hard to know who to root for. I guess I’m rooting for the Buddhists.

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Dad: You and I could start a dog farm!

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Dad: (digging in his coat pocket, where he has stowed a few, loose) Care for a ginger snap?

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Dad: I pressed the button for water and instead the machine gave me something disgusting, like root beer. Who drinks root beer? You like root beer?
Me: Sure.
Dad: Well, de gustibus no est disputandum. That means “Carthage must be destroyed”. No, just kidding.

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My 4-year-old niece: An M&M is a dead gumdrop.
Dad: That’s poetic. Metaphor.

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Dad: (after the waitress set my steak in front of me and headed back to the kitchen) What’d she say?
Me: Your liver’s coming out.
Dad: That sounds serious.

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Dad: (at Starbucks) Large black coffee. None of their hippie concoctions.

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Dad: (on the trip south) My ass hurts. Not the ass. The bones and joints underneath the ass.

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Dad: I don’t go to Mummy’s dentist. I don’t like Mummy’s dentist. She’s all smiley and nice.

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Dad: I’m glad I showered and shaved before we ran into your friend. That way she didn’t go around saying, “I saw Amy Scott with her derelict father.”