I am sooo 'busted'...

I get within squinting distance of the computer for the first time in days, sit down and start to IM with Paul about "Oh-ho, so you ARE still alive" and an email (all comments left here also get emailed to my Yahoo account) comes through from Dad. I pop over to it to see if it's about what we're doing about Christmas and it ain't. It's about bustin' me on my 'animal humanitarian efforts' (i.e.-my animal induced insanity) and he never mentioned Christmas....there's probably a message on my cell phone, another thing I haven't been dealing with lately.

Ladies and Gentlemen, with no further ado (or explanations about why I am like I am)...My Dad: (much 'golf-clapping' ensues)

"Now,I don't want you folks believing all the rumors Crossfire spreads about me. I mostly went to the mail box in my underwear after dark. And I think it's much better than going out in only one's boots. Besides, I don't think she ever saw me do this since we kept her locked in a cellar
which had no windows. (It was her or the elephant, and the neighbors didn't complain about the elephant.)

If she wants to tell stories, we have several
possum ones. I've been working shift work for 42
years now, so I have different sleep patterns than
most folks. Several years ago, I awoke around two in the afternoon, and went into the bathroom
to pee. As I was peeing, I heard hissing noises(?)
I looked under the tank of the toilet and there was a large possum expressing his displeasure that I was violating his space! Hmm, thinks I.
Wonder why there's a possum in my bathroom. I notice that room service seems to have brougt him some carrots and a piece of celery. Aha! This is
Daun's possum! I finished peeing and carefully closed the bathroom door so our new guest wouldn't
wander out and scare the cat. (You may ask why
I wasn't particularlly excited to find a possum in my bathroom. Well, I'm Daun's father, and this
wasn't an unusual occurance.)

Another time I was in the front yard,(clothed,
a seemingly rare experience) and saw Daun riding
her horse toward home, followed by her dog and
goat. (The goat never knew she wasn't a dog, and
went everywhere the gang went.) I noticed Daun
had her right arm held rigidly to the side, but of course thought nothing of it, since I was Daun's father. As she neared the yard I saw that the arm carried a possum with his tail wrapped around her wrist. Hmm. "Watcha doin' with a possum,there?" I said calmly, being rather used to such things. "These guy caught this possum in a leg-hold trap,(I then noticed Herr possum had
part of a front leg missing.) and I made them give it to me because they were going to kill her. Did I say her? Am I such a naturalist I can
determine the sex of a possum from twenty feet?
Nah. The possum had a baby or two clinging to her. They lived in a cage in our house until
the Possum Blue Cross determined they were sufficiently cured go back to nature and earn a decent living. BTW, if any of you ever find yourself being a Possumnurse (the government's
official name for this career), possums love hotdogs more than anything. If anyone from Oscar
Mayer would need a handsome older gentleman to star in a commercial with a (somewhat drugged,
thus lethargic possum,) I am certainly available
for a modest fee. The fee being something somewhat more spendable than free hotdogs...

These are only some possum stories. We have many stories of dogs being rescued by my intrepid
daughter (often within yards of their domicile),
cat stories, wounded bird stories. If we were around several million years old I would be able to relate several wounded dinosaur stories.

She once rescued a dog from the hospital parking lot, carried him home, called the dog
catcher to find the owner from the number on the dog's collar, and found the dog's owner was also the wealthy owner of a local carpet plant in the
county. She returned the dog to his joyful master,
who promised to carpet our floors for free as a reward for finding said pooch. Mr Campbell's house was next door to the hospital, and the dog had been about seventeen feet from his own yard when she shanghied him. (We didn't tell Mr Campbell that, and fortunately the dog didn't squeal.)

There are dozens of similar stories of Daun's
life before she became an accomplished and articulate late-night writer. (Hmm, it's 0400,
and I'm in the lab banging this out. I wonder where she gets this typing at all times habit..?)

Well, I have a few more samples to run, so I'll
stop the Daun stories for now. At least until the
next scantily clad father reference. I have many more stories that she does, although only about
50% of them are relatable to anyone under 35....."

See? My Dad is crazy...just like I said in the first place. And...so am I. Obviously.

Now, it just so happens that, like I also said, I'm not here totally alone...Paul's online, too. He just read this (the original comment) and said and I quote from the IM box:

TBT: that's a farkin' scream....
TBT: now I see where ya gets it
TBT: the man needs a blog of his own....
TBT: and to think there are people out there terrified of their parents/families discovering their blog..."
(Bold script is mine...)

Dad...you should do one of these, too. If not like I do, then with all the Pop-pop, Daun, Norman the 3rd stories and stuff from when you were growing up. God knows it'll last closer to forever that way. Besides, I already outed Uncle Jim for being the 'peep'-er that time...lmao. AND, Paul is from Canada, so that's people from two different countries that vote 'yes' Norman should have a blog...anyone else think so?

I take it yer at work...cool. I'll give ya a holler there, before ya get done.

Love you, Dad!

Posted by: Stevie at 04:22 AM

Comments

Posted by: Sgt Hook at December 24, 2003 01:13 PM (9wALQ)

Posted by: Stevie at December 24, 2003 03:46 PM (jqRrr)

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