I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Saturday, June 16, 2012

A Black Eye For Fathers Day

I woke up this morning to the yummy smells of breakfast wafting up the stairs. It's Father's Day! I bet I'm gonna get breakfast in bed. I laid in bed for awhile practicing my surprised, oh you guys didn't have to do that speech, but eventually it became apparent that breakfast was not coming. Maybe they are waiting for me downstairs, so I trudged down to see what was going on. My loving family were lounging around the breakfast table mounded over with dirty, empty dishes.
How come you guys didn't tell me breakfast was ready, or at least save me some?
Why would I? I made the kids breakfast, and then we ate.
But it's Father's Day.
I'm the Father. It's supposed to be about me today.
Oh. About that. I think it's high time we had a talk.
A talk?
You see... you're not the kids natural Father. You're adopted.
Yes. One day the kids and I heard a knock on the front door and when we opened it up there you were. You looked all sad and pathetic, so we took you in and raised you as our own.
Wait? What? I'm adopted? I can't believe this.
It's all true. You had a note pinned to your polyester leisure suit, claiming that your real family was no longer able to take care of you and that they hoped that you would find a loving home and that they hoped you wouldn't hold it against them.
It said that?
More or less.
More or less? What did it say exactly?
Hmmmm. I think the exact note said: Idiot. Free to good home. Or bad home for all we care. Whatever. Good riddance.
That doesn't sound like they loved me.
Yeah, I know. I made that up so you wouldn't start crying. You're such a little girl.
I am not. sob... Waaaaaaaah. 
Oh great. There you go Shiela. You know, maybe this is why they gave you up in the first place.
(sniffle) That's not very nice.
Man up, sugar britches.
You're just mean. Why are you saying this?
Your real family was right. You're an idiot. It's time you moved on.
Move on? But where will I go?
I don't know. Maybe try and find your original family. They might have changed their minds.
How will I know who they are? What did they look like? What did they do?
Well judging by the way you were dressed, I would guess either a vaudevillian troupe or a group of colorblind, white trash/gypsy, door-to-door siding salesmen. Gay gypsies most likely.
So, I should go look for for gay gypsies?
Sure. Go with that.
This is just the worst Father's Day ever.
Well it hasn't exactly been a picnic for us either. But there's no time like the present. So off you go. Write when you have news.
OK, I'll go. I guess I'll be seeing you.
No. Just kidding.
You're kidding?
Yeah. Don't bother to write. We don't really care that much.