PREFACE: I compose my blogs in my head. I find it gives me something to do rather than indulging in road rage or leafing through PEOPLE magazine in the checkout line. I’ve been composing this as a comedy because funny is good and apparently I have been inducing tears recently. This began as really riotous material, however some events have transpired that I will probably include that you may not find exactly knee-slapping. I, on the other hand, am laughing hysterically. Hysterically.
A week and a half ago, the following conversation took place between my Dad and a family friend named Wade:
WADE: So are we going out for breakfast?
DAD: Did we say we were going for breakfast this morning?
WADE: Uh, yes. Yes we did. We spoke on the phone.
DAD: Great! I forgot.
WADE: You still want to go?
DAD: Yes! Yes, let’s go have breakfast. Had some excitement the other day, must have slipped my mind.
DAD: Yep. Woke up and the house was full of smoke. I gotta hand it to that spotty fella. He got his leg strapped on and got down here, put the fire out before there was hardly any damage. I said I’d cook dinner, but he’s only got a couple of teeth left so it would have to be soup. That girl left something on the stove again.
Ooooookay. See, it’s like this. The woman who has been “taking care” of Dad, you know, the one who has a remarkable physical and energetic resemblance to a methamphetamine user, has been sleeping upstairs. Upstairs, where my Dad can’t get to because he can no longer climb stairs. Apparently she was not the only one up there. When Wade went up, there were eight mattresses on the floor, in various states of disarray, and a distinct aroma of body. But it seemed she was the only one actually present.
Her house has burned twice in the last year, thus her need to stay with my Dad. Well, that and his bank account. The other mattresses didn’t belong to her children, the state had removed them from her after reports that the six year old had been eating mustard for breakfast. So they probably belonged to Gimpy and his friends.
WADE: Well, Frank, let’s just get your keys and go.
DAD: Don’t have ‘em.
WADE: Where are they?
DAD: Dunno. Ask her.
She said she didn’t know. They had all been “lost”.
The police told me Dad’s car has been at the scene of two felonies and generally is parked at the house of a known White Supremacist gang leader. They make good money cooking and selling meth. All but one of Dad’s guns have gone missing, but good news! One may have been recovered in the car as a gang member ran from it. (He left it behind so he stood a chance at scaling the six-foot fence. He failed. For a superior race, they sure are dumb sometimes.)
Let’s return to the description of the dude who made it down the stairs to put the fire out, shall we? “Spotty”. This is a kind way of describing a human being who has a complexion not unlike the lunar landscape. Hot.
“Got his leg strapped on”. I think this speaks for itself. I mean, admittedly, there is something to be admired in a man who can strap it on while descending a staircase. That requires agility and nimbleness that I may not personally possess, but come on. Dude is missing a leg.
“A couple of teeth”. Really? So monopedal and bidental. Again…. hot.
This is what counts for the Master Race in Southeast Portland. Hitler must be so proud. Thank goodness they can identify themselves with a raised arm, palm facing downward, because if there were code words or they still had to goose step, this guy would be screwed. Any syllables required not spewing saliva or proper articulation would have to be written out in crayon. Hopefully spelling wouldn’t count.
Wade informed the woman that he would be returning with the police and, three hours later, the house was clear. He did find a chinchilla in a cage in Dad’s garage, however. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s funny all by itself. Maybe they had a fiendish plan to take over the fur industry and get everybody in perfect white mittens. But I hear it takes a lot of chinchillas to do that.
I always pictured Aryans as being strapping blond lads with blue eyes and abdominal muscles you could play washboard tunes on. But these are what you get in real life. Angry, lame, slurring addicts who live in an old man’s house and get a prostitute to inebriate him, drive him to the bank, withdraw money, and spend it on artificial limbs. Then they try to cook meth on an ancient electric stove. Note to all of you: never pass out while cooking meth. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Not that they are harmless. I’m sure they would stab me in the ear if any of them happen to read my blog. But I’m finding it difficult to muster up an appropriate amount of terror at their nefarious scheme to take over the world and rinse it of any undesirable bloodline. I mean, they abandoned three kids in a garage behind my Dad’s house, so if their own lines aren’t pure, I’m not sure how they are going to accomplish it.
Somehow I doubt this is the man Hitler pictured running the world. More likely this is the man Hitler would have used to check the temperature on his ovens.
Dad kicked them all out by some miracle, including the little bitch running his life, and changed the locks. He called my other friend who is a police sergeant and proudly told him this fact. He said he finally had keys to his own house. This was last Saturday. He promised he wouldn’t do it again.
He made sure of it.
I remember having a conversation with Dad when I told him I supported whatever he had to do. He was in such immense pain, both physical and emotional, and I strongly believe we should all get to leave life on our own terms when we have gone as far as we can go. “But Dad,” I said, “don’t do it when you’re drunk.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because you’ll probably miss and end up on life support for six years and that would suck.”
So Sunday night when I saw my Dad’s neighbor pop up on my Caller ID, I braced myself and spoke with her.
“Your Dad shot himself.”
I said the only thing I could think of. “Did he die?”
See, now, how funny is it that compared to the gang of pock-marked, racist, homophobes, Dad was NOT the fuck up?