My father is an interesting man. He’s an engineer by trade and any of you who have one of those in your family will know what I’m talking about. Engineers think on a different realm than you and I and therefore, flash their ‘geeky fucker’ badge even when trying to fit in with the rest of the world. It’s truly only been in the past couple of years that my dad has stopped wearing a fully loaded pocket protector around the house. I shit you not. I think he slept with that thing on in case he had to ‘make a quick note’. Sadly, he has replaced it with suspenders on his pants (even rainbow ones, like Robin Williams in “Mork from Ork’)(No fucking joke. Mom threw those out. Now he wears red ones. Or black. Depends on the mood.) and horrible dorkish watch cap hats, toques for us Canucks. But he doesn’t snug them down tight on his head. Oh no. He likes to pull them up into a cone right in the center of his bald pate. Gives the old noodle room to breathe.
Mom is beside herself.
“I got your Dad a new toque for christmas. Sonofabitch had to snoop at the receipt and found the sumbitchin thing so I gave it to him early. Oh good god, why can’t he wear it like a normal person? What’s with the cone? Your Dad has a pointy head anyway! Does he have to accentuate it? I am not going out in public with him!!”
This all said right in front of him.
Well, this is about the advice and such my dad has given me over the years. Not his gleeful penchant for looking like a dink. So here we go.
“Never get into a pissing contest with a skunk!”
All right. Sounds reasonable. I’d probably lose even if I could find a skunk willing to compete, only because I’d have to shinny my fat arse out of my too tight yoga pants and squat, being I is a female. But if it was a contest with a female skunk wearing yoga pants, I guarantee I’d win in sheer volume of liquid. Only because I drink a lot of water and forget to go to the bathroom. I can see the shamed skunkette now, lowering her tail in defeat.
“Always talk to the front end of the horse.”
Again, sound advice. I tried once years ago to have a vodka fueled conversation with the back-end of a horse. All I really remember is having a few of my teenaged girlfriends pull me up off the ground after slipping in horse shit. I don’t think the horse had much to say. But in future I will always try to find its front before I converse. Lesson learned.
“Put lipstick on a pig. It’s still a pig.”
No, it’s not. It’s Miss Piggy!
“Don’t piss in the wind!”
Are you seeing a theme here? I believe my father thinks I have a penis. He’s got one kid. How you could fuck that up is beyond me.
“Don’t shit where you eat.”
I think this was his attempt at career advice, and I hope that was it because, really?
“When you get a cold, go out to the bar. Drink lots of scotch. Your cold will get drunk and forget who it’s supposed to go home with.”
That one has actually worked for me.
“Men don’t understand froofy language. We need you to get to the point. When you say, I feel, all men hear is blah, blah, blah. Talk to a man like a man talks to a man. He’ll get it then.”
Best. Advice. EVER!!!
He took me to the dr. when I was 27.
“What are you going to the dr. for?”
“Well you can’t go to the dr. for nothing. What’s up?”
“What are you going to the dr. for?”
“Jesus christ Dad! I think I have a yeast infection okay?”
And then, my dear father, with a vague look of disgust on his face says,very quietly,
“You women. You’re always bleeding or leaking or something.”
Touche, Dad. Touche.
The poor fellow. For such a smart man, you’d think he’d know when not to ask. But he’s held his own with my mother and I. He’s taught me to change my oil and spark plugs, to throw a ball like a man. Even to throw a punch like one.(Don’t cross me!)And now, in my adulthood, he’s become a damn good friend.
But I really don’t want him giving my son any advice. Poor kid is confused enough with out all the strange animal platitudes.