It’s all your fault. You did this to us, Dad. Anytime someone accuses one of us of having a twisted sense of humor our only defense is “You think that’s sick? You should hear what Kurt the Slimeball did to that steak tartare! Now that’s some messed-up stuff.”
When one of our significant others or friends is embarrassed when we start singing along with the music in the store at full volume we can only respond by singing all of the parts to “Tradition” or “Sunrise, Sunset” even more loudly (Okay, I won’t put all of the blame on you for this one; when we harmonize with the elevator music that’s Mom’s fault.).
Anytime we find ourselves in the outdoors enjoying the feeling of the sun filtering through the clouds, the smell of the trees, and the sound of the wind we blame you for teaching us to appreciate nature.
When we lie in bed at night, unable to sleep because our minds are too busy contemplating the vastness of the universe and the meaning of “infinity”, we know it is your fault for inspiring us to think.
When we see someone in trouble and feel compelled to step in and help, even when it might put us in an uncomfortable situation, we know we are only doing it because you showed us how to be courageous (Don’t think that Mom is off the hook for this one either. Geez, what jerks you two are!).
Even though you taught us all of these, and many more, appalling things, you still deserve to have a wonderful birthday. I love you, Dadda!
Fiddler On The Roof... nothing scars a fat teenager's psyche like having to duckwalk across a stage in front a few hundred people while dressed like a Russian Jew who shops at DI and yard sales. By the way, all these character building experiences, when do I get to cash them in?
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