Talking to my father out my a*s

Approximately 500 words

It was twelve in the afternoon, approximately. And I’d just begun to cook myself a heap of bacon and eggs. My talents in the kitchen are rather unremarkable, however. So by the time I’d begun to sizzle and flip my food, my mother had already parted her boudoir and taken control over the whole operation. This was most definitely a fortunate action on her part, for the salvation of my meal"otherwise, I fear that my eggs would have been a sloppy runny mess unfit for even our dog to enjoy.

But, under my mother’s supervision, my eggs and my bacon turned out all right, and I was therefore free to enjoy a meal that was exceptionally well done, though for which I was unable to claim any accolades.

When after I’d splurged some ketchup onto my eggs and some syrup onto my bacon, I took a seat at our dining-room table across from my father. We’d begun by talking about the fascinating qualities of light (quite randomly), and then I introduced the topic of university, into which I would soon be enlisting.

And so, we gabbed on and on foolishly for the most part, for a while. And then, in a moment of silence, I suddenly started to laugh at myself.

My father perked up and asked me what the hell was wrong with me, for it was very strange to see anything but a frown or otherwise emotionless expression pasted on my face.

I snickered again, and then told him that I had a funny thought cross my mind. I said: “I can’t wait for all those women I’m going to woo with the trickery of my charm and my wit…”

This inspired his trademark wheezing gasping guffaw, which in turn inspired me to laugh even harder than I already was. Through my laughter, however, I somehow managed to add: “I might need some wax though"give myself a Brazilian, you know…” That’s when my father lost all self-control, and grasped his sides and fell back into his chair like a madman on nitrous oxide. I very nearly mimicked him.

“What!” I managed to exclaim, still laughing my own a*s off. “You gotta keep the Sweet William flourishing in its little planter’s box, down there…”

Whenever it was that my father managed a breath sufficient enough to speak intelligibly, he pointed at me and declared: “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid…” and then started up again.

“Well,” I said, “that’s why I’m going… And I intend to do so every day!” …Sometime later he called me a “wild character,” and then shouted to my mother who’d since retreated to her boudoir: “Can you believe this guy is our child… Jesus!”

I but sat there and enjoyed the remainder of my meal; and, accompanied by all this laughter, it was a damn good one. (There was no better feeling that morning than putting a smile on my own face, for there IS value at laughing at your own jokes, sometimes.)