Saturday, June 1, 2013

I'd rather my white trash ghost simply say Boo!

                The other night, The Dad hiccupped in such an aggressive and abrupt way that I didn’t know what was happening and actually reached for his inhaler.  When he caught his breath, he said, “That hiccup was so big it made tears in my eyes as big as a horse turd.”  While I refrained from speaking, my facial expression conveyed all that I needed to convey which he ignored and asked, You know what a hiccup is, don’t ya?”  Before I digressed into a clinical definition of said bodily function, he said, “It’s a fart that got lost!”

                Lately, when he makes any similar statement I have taken to looking to my left as if there is someone there to see me roll my eyes.  It’s not unlike the TV camera I always thought should have been but am now extremely happy was not there filming me for the reality show that is my life.  The Dad has caught on to this practice and asked who I was looking at.  I told him it was the ghost he swears lives in our house.

                While I do believe in ghosts only because I have seen one face to face (still not over that DeeDee Smith, thank you very much), I do not believe that my father has seen any specters in this particular home of mine.  A recent episode of Doctor Who solved the riddle of a ghost by discovering it was a time traveler stuck in a rift in the time/space continuum or somesuch quasi-scientific reason.  I realize that Dr. Who is not actually based on real science, I sure do wish I could have a closet that’s bigger on the inside because my colored chino collection is getting out of control, do you hear me?  However, as Lulu refuses to take sides in this battle, I have decided that there really is a ghost and she agrees with me.

                I can assure you if there were some supernatural force in the immediate area, the activity that takes place in and around my father’s bathroom would most certainly cause that force to flee to the relatively safe confines of purgatory or wherever they’re supposed to go.  Look, I said I believed in them, not that I had a doctorate in paranormal psychology or some other pseudo-science like physics.  What?  Physics is math parading as science.  I took it in both high school and college and still have night terrors.  Two pages of calculations just to get the formula before you enter the numbers to get the answer?  Madness!  Utter and complete madness!  Said the Journalism major.

                Of course when I mentioned to my father that I seemingly believed in his sightings, he began to talk about death and dying as many older adults are prone to do.  You have to understand that I have recently begun to realize that my Dad will be living with me until he passes on from this world.  I have already begun to acclimate myself to the very real possibility that I will forever be a bachelor because who in their right mind would want to marry someone with a 71 year-old belligerent and flatulent teenager?  No, really, who?  I need names, people.

                And with that thought in mind, I gave him a direct order as if he were an employee, that should he feel himself slipping from this realm, that he quickly retire to the yard as to not taint the happy feel of my home because I will never live, again, in a place where someone to my knowledge has died.  And Dee Dee Smith knows exactly what I'm talking about.  I love my house and do not want to move.  No, I don’t think it’s selfish and you’re rude to suggest that.

                The downside of his death, besides the fact that he would be dead, would be that, were it actually possible, he would come back to haunt me.  Of this you can be sure.  I would have history’s first farting, burping ghost who would somehow figure out a way to fry a steak on my stove just to keep it greasy.

                Because being haunted is not a father-son activity in which I would willingly participate.  Although, outside of eating and/or complaining about stupid people, what activity would appeal to us both, is beyond me.  Apparently, from the commotion to my immediate left, one of my father’s current activities is scratching his chest with his middle shirt button unfastened, like Napoleon, without the couth or the short man complex.  When he finished, he didn’t re-button his shirt.  When I asked why he was insistent on being unkempt, he said, “What if I have another itch?”  I can assure you, the Supreme Court hasn't judged anyone as much as I am judging him right at this very moment. 

                Seeing my look of mild revulsion, he sat and smiled like a cat eating sawbriars through a picket fence.  Yes, that’s what he said.  I asked him to spell sawbriars to ensure accuracy. Even I, with my fluency in redneck, several dialects of country and a passing familiarity with Mississippi-specific white trash, was unfamiliar with this particular phrase.  Apparently, sawbriars are a real thing, I binged it, and as you know eating any briar, saw or otherwise, would require one to chew very carefully. 

                And I truly don’t know what else to say at this point. 

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