Love a Happy Ending Lifestyle Magazine August 2013 | Page 42

learn what the commotion was about. I had never seen my father nervous before, but he
visibly was that night. It probably would have taken my bleeding from every orifice for him to
even consider engaging in a single drop of eye contact during what was sure to be one very
difficult discussion for the both of us.
Dad: You know about condoms?

Me: Yes
Dad: Use them.
He then proceeded to flip to the sports page, emotionally satisfied that he fulfilled his fatherly
duty in explaining the art of fucking. Well done, Pop.
I have to figure that my father thought he had sired a military man. When I was born, all he
saw was a child who would grow to encompass all of the characteristics inherently
synonymous with honor, courage, and pride. Instead, he produced a mouthy jerkoff who gets
immense pleasure out of busting his balls whenever the austerity crumbles. It doesn’t
happen often, but when it does, it’s usually a doozy.
We reached the apex Saturday night.
It all started around a backyard bonfire. Several years ago, my parents moved from the
house I was raised in, and instead of memorializing the yard with a bronze statue of me, they
sold it without my consent. The folks built their dream home in the middle of nowhere.
Swallowed up in trees, acres of wildlife and peace surround the empty-nest couple who can’t
shut the fuck up over menial, bullshit arguments the likes of which the world has never seen.
On the brink of insanity, the two of them fight over what’s for dinner as if the wrong choice
would determine the future of human existence. People wonder why I question my
genealogy, but despite their idiosyncrasies, they know how to put on a hell of a party.