"I told your mother this morning, that Monday, my only day off, I don't want to hear anything from anyone. I'm going to wake up, have a nice breakfast, and sit in my chair and watch the game. And that is it. Nothing else. I don't care if the President calls. Obama-head will have to call back tomorrow, because I'm watching the Monday night game!"
And then, in his characteristic, after work, slightly demented mood, he moves his right hand up into the air, in an aristocratic french manner, and say's,
"'Avant. Be out of my sight.' That's from Shakespeare. And it's the only thing I know of Shakespeare."
To which I retort, "What about 'To be or not to be? That is the question?'"
We then spend the next minute trying to think up the next line, with my father, befuddled, muttering,
"nobler in the mind..."
"yes! 'Tis nobler in the mind..."
"Yeah...."
My father sits down. "Oh, who cares about Shakespeare, dopey Shakespeare." And then, "My legs are swollen tonight." Which of course must naturally transition into my father singing, a la West Side Story, "Tonight, tonight, my legs are swollen like a dyke."
"What?" I exclaim, laughing uproariously.
"Oh, I'm tired, and crazy tonight," my father exclaims matter-of-factly.
"No, really?" I'm still laughing as I leave the kitchen.
2 comments:
your father is awesome. he deserves to watch his game.
Your father really does seem like one of nature's gentlemen. We all deserve (and need) a little peace and quiet
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