Time To Play "Is This Funny...Or Highly Illegal"

That's right gang...it's time for another round of "Is This Funny...Or Highly Illegal". The setting for our episode today is a HYPOTHETICAL workplace. This HYPOTHETICAL workplace consists of a receptionist desk, a conference room able to seat 12 people, and commons area containing ten cubicals, You know the drill...determine whether the following comments/situations are funny or highly illegal.

1. Setting: Commons Area. From inside his cube, a man loudly says "Hey Wenders XP (comical nickname for Wendy), I just found your twin on my Yahoo page. Come here quick, you won't believe this!" Wendy takes a long walk to this man's cubicle to see a picture on his screen of a dark skinned woman looking nothing like her"

2. Setting: Commons Area (immediately after #1). The man loudly tells Wendy "That girl looks like you....I'm going to stalk her!"

3. Setting: Receptionist Area. In an effort to show office team building, a man inquiries how well two new employees are performing. "Hey Shelly...any idea how Karen's new bimbos' are doing?"

4. Setting: Receptionist Area. "Hey Wenders XP, what's that you're eating? A little Irish stew? Or is that Mexican stew?"

5. Setting: Receptionist Area. "What's the matter Wendy, never seen a guy put on a rubber before?" To which Wendy replies, "What do you think? I have 3 kids."

6. Setting: Commons Area. Man shots from out of his cubical "Hey Josie, when you gonna bring in some of those Phillipeano pastries?" Josie, the new employee of Phillipeano decent, doesn't reply.

7. Setting: Commons Area. Man overhears one side of a conversation his colleague is having on the phone. After the call ends, he asks from inside his cube, "Hey Scotter (comical nickname for Scott), did that person from BV need to AXE you some questions?" The African American employee that sits next to the man speaking to Scott says nothing.

8. Setting: Commons Area. "I think that damn temp they gave us can't read"

9. Setting: Receptionist Area. "Give it to me....just stick it in!"

10. Setting: Receptionist Area. New female employee proclaims, "Wendy is a busy beaver! Oh, that's an unfortunate choice of words. God, now I'm just being naughty."

11. Setting: Commons Area. Speaking on the phone with a client, employee states, "I'm already on page 69 and still no sex!"

12. Setting: Receptionist Area. Helpful colleague states, "You want to know how to lose some weight? POLE DANCE! Yep, that's what their doing these days...I saw in on YouTube."

13. Setting: Receptionist Area. Colleague explaining his night to Wendy, "I had a dream last night that I delivered your baby. I grew up on a farm, that's probably why."

14. Setting: Receptionist Area. Wendy tells employee, "Just put it in my box and I'll take care of it"

15. Setting: Receptionist Area. Employee states, "Thanks for cranking that out for me." Wendy replies, "No problem...anytime!"

16. Setting: Receptionist Area. Wendy asks, "How big is it?" Employee responds, "IMMENSE"

17. Setting: Commons Area. Angered/confused man screams, "What the shittin' hell?"

18. Setting: Commons Area. Man exclaims on the phone to his client, "That son-of-a-bitch is not going to be laughing when I put a six inch hole in his chest."

19. Setting: Conference Room. During a presentation by an outside wholesaler, the discussion turns to the wholesaler's support team. A collegue looks around while stating "Hello, I am from the service center...how can I help you?" in a poorly put together Indian accent. The Phillipeano employee seated next to him doesn't say anything.

GOOD LUCK!

Top Ten Signs Bernard Madoff Was A Crook

1. For the past eight years, he didn't pass a pay phone without checking the coin-return slot.
2. Account statements were handwritten notes on the back of cocktail napkins.
3. He always won the NCAA Bracket challenge he ran.
4. With a name like "Made-Off", what else could he do?
5. Repeatedly spotted nose-deep in a yellow covered book entitled "Running a Ponzi Scheme for Dummies".
6. Madoff was on record as being staunchly against the Hammer/Daddy ticket.
7. When asked about his constantly outperforming trading strategy, he responded with "...agh...(cough)...Haha...Well, I can tell you one thing - This is NOT a ponzi scheme designed to steal $80B from charities...Haha...agh...".
8. He paid the boatsman half for only finishing half of the job when painting the name "Bull" on his yacht.
9. The FatHead of Frank Abagnale in his office.
10. After seeing his first round fantasy draft pick go down with a season ending injury, refusing to pay his entrance fee.

Mark Morrison's Commentary on the Current Financial Crisis

During the past twelve months, many questions have been asked regarding our current situation -

"How in god's name did a couple of mortgage brokers destroy the global economy?"
"Why has it taken so long for another post on our blog?"
"Who the hell fell asleep at the wheel watching this house of cards?"
"Do tongue rings serve any purpose other than...."

Seems every place I go, some "genius" has the answer for this global systemic failure, and they reach both ends of the spectrum. Only person that truly has the solution and has been warning about this for years - Mark Morrison. He prophecized about this some years ago in a parable he entitled "Return of the Mack"

Oh, oo-o-oh, come on, ooh, yeah
Well I tried to tell you so (yes, I did)
But I guess you didn't know, as I said the story goes
Baby, now I got the flow
'Cos I knew it from the start
Baby, when you broke my heart
That I had to come again, and show you that I'm real
(You lied to me) all those times I said that I love you
(You lied to me) yes, I tried, yes, I tried
(You lied to me) even though you know I'd die for you
(You lied to me) yes, I cried, yes, I cried

The lying, the greed, the hasty use of credit default swaps and other derivatives, the orgy of leverage were all things he tried to warn us about. He tried and tried and tried but we wouldn't listen....even when he started crying we just laughed at him behind his back.

1-(Return of the Mack) it is
(Return of the Mack) come on
(Return of the Mack) oh my God
(You know that I'll be back) here I am
(Return of the Mack) once again
(Return of the Mack) pump up the world
(Return of the Mack) watch my flow
(You know that I'll be back) here I go
So I'm back up in the game
Running things to keep my swing
Letting all the people know
That I'm back to run the show
'Cos what you did, you know, was wrong
And all the nasty things you've done
So, baby, listen carefully
While I sing my come-back song

Although he was mocked, Morrison's love for us common folk have brought him back again to fix this. His flow has opened the credit market, and he's letting all the people know to follow in his footsteps and flow. He is the one running this thing. Not Paulson. Not Bernakee. Not Barney Frank. Morrison is back baby! You don't even know what his flow is going to do next, but if it's anything like what it did for the credit markets I'll take a double flow. Shining example of his flow - we lose 500,000+ jobs and the market gains ground.

2-(You lied to me) 'cos she said she'd never turn on me (You lied to me) but you did, but you do (You lied to me) all these pains you said I'd never feel (You lied to me) but I do, but I do, do, do (Return of the Mack) here it is (Return of the Mack) hold on (Return of the Mack) don't you know (You know that I'll be back) here I go (Return of the Mack) oh little girl (Return of the Mack) wants my pearl (Return of the Mack) up and down (You know that I'll be back) round and round

Companies, Rating Agencies, CEO's...they all lied and caused much pain, even to Morrison. What, did they think he wouldn't be back? Well, he is, and he's serving those busta's a bunch of pearls, which no doubt means a brass knuckle punch to the neck.

(You know that I'll be back) don't you know
(Return of the Mack) here it is
(Return of the Mack) hold on
(Return of the Mack) be strong
(You know that I'll be back) here I go
(Return of the Mack) my little girl
(Return of the Mack) wants my pearl
(Return of the Mack) up and down
(You know that I'll be back) round and round

Mark Morrison is our leader, follow your leader! Be strong! Spread your flow....if not, we could exacerbate our problems.

The Legend of the Red Baron

Details are hazy, but spent the better part of my week researching and interviewing some of the sharpest minds this world has to offer to fill in the gaps. My memory was jogged by running into Michelle/Nicole Rader last week, and our conversation turned to the time we all went up to her relatives property.

Setting - Vacant land in Glen Arbor, MI

Date - No idea....summer, maybe 4-5 years ago

Characters - Raders, Rader's brother and his crew (think Doughboy's brother was there), Deboer, Dave Schroreder, Caulky, Bret & Nate Walters, Knoll, Knoll's little brother (guest appearance), Daddy, Newman, Savage, Phil, Amy T, Lynsey Warington, TOR, Tracey Lake, Balbach and his sister, and others

When we arrived, Rader's brother's crew had already set up camp. They seemed surprised, almost shocked, to see the fifteen of us show up and start unpacking our gear. There agitation increased when we had to rearrange their stuff a little to better accommodate our group. I believe their tolerance reached its limit when Rader's brother began yelling at Deboer. Deboer and Dave, in an attempt to enhance our setup, had decided that we needed Dave's full size truck by our tents so we could listen to the radio. This was a problem because there was not enough clearance between branches to fit a vehicle through. Well, Deboer got out his machete and started hacking off branches to create an opening....problem solved, right? One would have thought so, but Rader's brother was NOT to keen on the idea. When all of his protesting ceased, he saw it Deboer's way and ultimately enjoyed the radio the rest of the week.

We hit the beach hard the first day. On the way to the beach, Rader invited us on a booze cruise in the afternoon. Plans were falling into place. Got to the beach, and the girls were looking GOOD son! We were doing our thing, not attracting women, soaking up the sun, preparing for our booze cruise. Some of us were getting more sun than others, notably Newman, but he didn't have much of a base to begin with. By the time we left, he was already a deep red/purple color. We approached Rader's grandparents house, and the 15 of us headed straight for the pontoon, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. As I boarded the vessel, I faintly heard some elderly person mention a "small craft advisory", but assumed they must be joking. Phil piloted the vessel, with a towel wrapped around his neck. A group was also out in the water in a speed boat, and for some reason they were bringing us Knoll's car keys. It must have been decided that a toss would be easier than a hand-off, so they threw the keys to Knoll. 25 sets of eyes watched as the keys hit the water, and quickly sunk to the bottom. This left Knoll in a tough situation, but we had bigger problems. The wind was blowing hard and Phil had somehow put us in a position where our pontoon was taking on water at an alarming pace.....and we were in the center of the lake. At one point the entire front was capsized...we had people running from the front to the back of the boat....ON PHIL'S COMMAND?!?! Finally, TOR (110 lbs) and Radar (90 lbs) decided their combined weigh was too much for our ship and moreover they would rather take their chances swimming in than leave their lives in Phil's hands. Fools....as fate would have it Phil had everything under control.

Knoll's little brother drove 300 miles to give Chris his spare set of keys, but that's not all he brought. Also in his bag was a half gallon of vodka which he spent the week cutting with Gatorade. He also brought with him many outrageous call-outs, prompting Chris to mention "that's blood baby, that's blood" more than once. Deboer found his puppet, and shortly after Knoll's brothers arrival he left with Deboer and Deboer's crew to go "2-tracking" and "maybe do some shooting". As we sat around the campfire, Savage was game-planning before he went to bed early. He made it very clear to us that under no circumstances should we allow Amy T to follow him into his tent. Like the Nostradamus he is, it wasn't five minutes after he went into his tent that the lovely Amy T followed. She wasn't given much time to seduce, because shortly after she entered, she heard yelling from the campfire - "Savage, come here quick. My cock is bigger than it has ever been". We are told that the next words she heard were from Savage and they were - "Oh shit! Daddy's got his cock out! I gotta see this". And he did.

The rest of the night consisted of booze, smoke, Newman complaining about his sunburn, Knoll's little brother getting Caulky pukey drunk and passing out in the bed of the truck, and was capped with rain. So we all went to our respective tents, but because of the heat radiating off of his sunburn, Newman chose to sleep in the "sun room" of his tent. The "sun room" had mesh walls, but he was instructed that as long as he didn't touch the walls, water wouldn't get in. He awoke in a puddle of water, which no doubt had a soothing effect on his sunburn. He left early the next morning.

Editors Note: Found it weird than when speaking to Phil last week, he asked if this is the trip that he and I shared a tent and he sleep nude.

Biggest Bar Night Ever........EVER!

I don't claim to know a whole lot about "cool" (I suppressed "fashion", "Greek mythology", and "crazy hot sex" for the sake of length), but up until last Wednesday I could have sworn the "cool" thing to do was to go out to your hometown bars the night before Thanksgiving. I thought this was a time honored tradition...like circumcism, but I have come to realize both have come in question.

The night before Thanksgiving was big time, don't get me wrong. We started the night with a small crew at the tap room. Your usual HITTERS, doing what we do. Catching up with everyone, reliving high school stories, etc... As you might expect, we starting reciting lines from movies when the conversation got dull - "That's right, Iceman, I am dangerous" "One, Two, Ten....Oswald was a fag" "Dropping loads all over" "Oh, who are you? Isaac Fucking Newton". You know, lines from all the hits. What's that you say, you aren't familiar with one of the quotes? Which one? As it turns out, most others weren't aware and were quite startled when Phil loudly stated this to the bar. Upon inquiry, we found our friend has taking a liking to the work of Nick Manning (or HERE if you are NOT at work...do NOT click if at work and your volume is on). I can't speak for the others, but I became very concerned for Phil when I realized about 80% of what he said that night was actually things he had heard Mr. Manning say at some point in time. While most of us were excited to get back together, Phil couldn't stop talking about how his man was going to release ring tones. Forgive me, for this could just be me showing how out of touch with "cool" I actually am.

Barber, Graham, Balbach, please do not read further.

As the night progressed, we made our way to Main Street....place was packed! Schultz was manning (Phil, by "manning" I mean operating, not a reference to your guy) the door, on the lookout I'm sure for the perpetrators that vandalized his state of the art restroom. As we walked in further, we saw Phil Hall sitting on a chair overlooking the room making sure trouble did not break out. I'm fairly confident this was not a contracted position he was receiving compensation for, but oddly no one was really surprised.

Quick digression - Watching the Missouri game...are the big ass Dr. Seuss hats still cool? What in the hell is going on...where do they breed these people? Oh, just answered my own question.

We saw a couple of men in uniform at Main Street. I figured I would thank them for their service, so I approached them only to be cut off by Phil Zeilinger, his wife, and Matt Kasawski. Phil is not stable, so I chose to wait my turn, but soon realized Phil was not there to thank them. Rather, Phil was attempting to point out that they were wearing their gear incorrectly. Is this cool? Is it possible that Phil forgot he was dishonorably discharged from the Armed Forces 10 years ago and further he would find it a challenge instructing someone how to cook a hot dog? We left Main Street, went to Hook's. Young, unattractive crowd...left shortly after arriving.

Someone help me.....Biggest Bar Night.....not cool now?

What I Like

I spent some time with my Grandfather the other day and learned something....."That god damned Cameron Maybin isn't worth a shit." It's so nice spending time with relatives and not having to waste my time making out with chicks. All that making out would prevent me from the knowledge one can only learn from someone who has spent 89 years on this Earth. Like when we celebrated his birthday last weekend, he pulled me aside for another pearl of wisdom...."That god damned Brandon Inge isn't worth a shit. He spends too much time on that damned golf course." At dinner with about 30 of my family members, he took the opportunity to express some of his concerns to me. "Matt, you dating anyone?" (I'm at the far end of the table, so this old, grisseled man is yelling) "No, no I'm not Grandpa". "Why the hell not! You need to be more like you grandpa when he was your age!" (My grandfather was was married to the woman sitting next to him at his age 20, but who am I to say anything) "Yes, yes I do Grandpa....would you like more whiskey?"

Some other things I've learned from him this year -

1) "That god damned Gary Sheffield isn't worth a shit. Wagging that god damned bat up there....look at him....he's not even ready for the pitch!"

2) "That god damned Guillen isn't worth a shit."

3) "That god damned Jones......he isn't worth a shit."

I ran across something else I loved this weekend.....a GREAT deal! You know, when you see something so good you have to start flipping through the address book on your cell and calling everybody....it was that good! I am driving and stop at a red light on the corner State and Bay. Windows down, Grateful Dead - "Touch of Grey" playing loudly through my speakers. I look directly to my left and see a entreprenurial bunch of "gentlemen" and "ladies" with signs. I hear them screaming something, but can't quite make out what the hell is going on. Fear overcame my body as one "gentleman" started walking directly towards my window, pointing and screaming at me. He was practically inside my car, telling me "YOU NEED THIS CAR WASH MAN! IT'S $3....YOU CANT BEAT THAT (I think he may have actually sworn here).....COME ON!" I never actually made eye contact with him; kept my eyes fixed straight ahead at the light...trying to "will it" to turn green. Ted must have thought I didn't notice him, because he continued waving his hands at me while yelling "YOU CAN'T PASS THIS UP". I passed it up, because here is what would have happened had I took Ted up on his offer. After a half-ass car wash with dirty water and mits that scratched my car, Ted would walk up to my window and say "5 Bucks". After I handed him three, he would say "Naw, 5 dollars for SUV's man". I begin to explain that the discrimination against SUV drivers parrellels that of African Americans in the 1950s, and now is the time to do what is right, but he isn't budging. I start to pull away, five dollars poorer and $5,000 less in blue book value, and I here Ted saying...."No tip? Come on man! Think about the kids!"

Other things I like....

...grabbing the treadmill/eliptical machine/stairstepper next to the woman wearing the visable thong and saying "Want to race?"

...Ty Willingham soon to be having a beater record the Charlie Wies at Notre Dame

..."IT'S AN A-BOMB, FOR A-ROD!"

Things I don't like...

...people I don't know sending emails to my work account about my erection/length issues

...this bump on my leg the seems to be getting larger

...coming up with way's to end posts

Gob Bluth Out.....Rooster In?

YOU CAN'T KILL THE ROOSTER

HE'LL NEVER HOLD ELECTED OFFICE OR OWN MORE THAN ONE SPORT COAT, BUT YOU WON'T FIND ANYONE MORE LOYAL THAN MY YOUNGER BROTHER

When I was young, my father was transferred, and our family moved from western
New York State to Raleigh, North Carolina. IBM had relocated a great many
northerners, and, together, we made relentless fun of our new neighbors and
their poky, backward way of life. Rumors circulated that locals ran stills out
of their toolsheds and referred to their house cats as "good eatin'." Our
parents coached us never to use the titles ma'am or sir when speaking to a
teacher or shopkeeper. Tobacco was acceptable in the form of a cigarette, but
should any of us experiment with plug or snuff, we would be automatically
disinherited. Mountain Dew was forbidden, and our speech was monitored for the
slightest hint of a Raleigh accent. Use the word y'all and, before you knew it,
you'd find yourself in a haystack French-kissing an underage goat. Along with
grits and hush puppies, the abbreviated form of"you all" was a dangerous step
on an insidious path leading straight to the doors of the Baptist church.
We might not have been the wealthiest People in town, but at least we weren't
one of them.

Our family remained free from outside influence until 1968, when my mother gave
birth to my brother, Paul, a North Carolina native who has since grown to
become both my father's best ally and worst nightmare. Here was a child who, by
the time he had reached second grade, spoke much like the toothless fishermen
casting their nets into Albemarle Sound. This is the thirty-year-old son who
now phones his father to say, "Motherfucker, I ain't seen pussy in so long I'd
throw stones at it."

My brother's voice, like my own, is high-pitched and girlish. Telephone
solicitors frequently ask to speak to our husbands, and room-service operators
appease us by saying, "That shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes, Mrs.
Sedaris." The Raleigh accent is soft and beautifully cadenced, but my brother's
is a more complex hybrid, informed by his professional relationships with
marble-mouthed, deep-country laborers and his abiding love of hardcore rap
music. He talks so fast, 'you find yourself concentrating on the gist of his
message rather than trying to decipher the actual words. It's like speaking to
a foreigner and understanding only the terms motherfucker, bitch, and hoss and
the phrase "You can't kill the Rooster."

"The Rooster" is what Paul calls himself when he's feeling threatened. Asked
how he came up with that name, he says only, "Certain motherfuckers think they can
fuck with my shit, but you can't kill the Rooster. You might can fuck him up
sometimes, but, bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking Rooster. You know what
I'm saying?"

It often seems that my brother and I were raised in two completely different
households. He's eleven years younger than I am, and by the time he reached
high school, the rest of us had all left home. When I was young, we weren't
allowed to say "shut up," but by the time Paul reached his teens, it had become
acceptable to shout, "Shut your motherfucking mouth." The drug laws had changed
as well. "No smoking pot" became "No smoking pot in the house," before it
finally petered out to "Please don't smoke any pot in the living room."
My mother was, for the most part, delighted with my brother and regarded him
with the bemused curiosity of a brood hen discovering she has hatched a
completely different species. "I think it was very nice of Paul to give me this
vase," she once said, arranging a bouquet of wildflowers into the skull-shaped
bong my brother had left on the dining-room table. "It's nontraditional, but
that's the Rooster's way. He's a free spirit, and we're lucky to have him."
Like most everyone else in our suburban neighborhood, we were raised to meet a
certain standard. My father had dreams of me becoming a great athlete and
attending an Ivy League college. While I was happy to bottle and diaper my
first football, I had no interest in actually throwing the thing. My grades
were average at best, and eventually I learned to live with my father's
disappointment. Fortunately, there were six of us children, and it was easy to
get lost in the crowd. My sisters and I managed to sneak beneath the wire of
his expectations, but I worried about my brother, who was seen as the family's
last hope.

From the age of ten, Paul was being dressed in Brooks Brothers suits and tiny
red clip-on ties. He endured soccer camps, church-sponsored basketball
tournaments, and after-school sessions with well-meaning tutors who would
politely change the subject when asked about the Rooster's chances of getting
into Yale or Princeton. Fast and well-coordinated, Paul never minded sports
just so long as he was either stoned or winning. School failed to interest him
on any level, and he considered it an accomplishment to receive an occasional
D-minus. His response to my father's impossible and endless demands has, over
time, become something of a mantra. Short and sweet, repeated at a fever pitch,
it goes simply, "Fuck it," or, on one of his more articulate days, "Fuck it,
motherfucker. That shit don't mean fuck to me."

My brother politely ma'ams and sirs all strangers but refers to friends and
family, his father included, as either bitch or motherfucker Friends are
appalled at the way he speaks to his only remaining parent. The two of them
recently visited my sister Amy and me in New York City, and we celebrated with
a dinner party. When my father complained about his aching feet, the Rooster
set down his two-liter Mountain Dew and removed a fistful of prime rib from his
mouth, saying, "Bitch, you need to have them ugly-ass bunions shaved down is
what you need to do. But you can't do shit about it tonight, so lighten up,
motherfucker."

All eyes went to my father, who chuckled, saying only, "I guess you have a
point."

A stranger might reasonably interpret my brother's language as a lack of
respect and view my father's response as a kind of shameful surrender. This, though,
would be missing the subtle beauty of their relationship.

My father is the type who will recite a bawdy limerick by saying, "A woman I
know who's quite blunt / Had a bear trap installed in her...' oh, you know.
It's a base, vernacular term for the female genitalia." He can absolutely kill
a joke. When pushed to his limit, this is a man who shouts, "Fudge!" and
sometimes follows it with a shake of his fist and a hearty "G. D. you!" I've
never heard him curse, yet he and my brother seem to have found a common
language that eludes the rest of us.

My father likes to talk about money. Spending doesn't interest him, especially
when it comes to tipping. He prefers money as a concept, something that, if
invested with care, will mature at a 6.5 percent inoculated rate of
fiduciary-based annuity. Something like that. I can drink eighteen cups of
coffee and still collapse into sleep at first mention of the word dividend.
Still, though, I make an effort to listen to him, if only because it seems like
the polite thing to do. When my father talks finance to my brother, Paul says,
"Fuck the stock talk, hoss, you're wearing me out." This rarely ends the
scheduled lecture, but my brother wins bonus points for boldly voicing his
disinterest, just as my father would do were someone to corner him to talk
about Buddhism or the return of the dog. The two of them are unapologetically
blunt. It's a quality my father admires so much, he's able to ignore the foul
language completely. "That Paul," he says. "Now there's a guy who knows how to
get his point across."

When words fall him, the Rooster has been known to communicate with his fists,
which, though quick and solid, are no larger than a couple of tangerines. At
five foot four, he's shorter than I am, stocky, but not exactly intimidating. I
last saw my brother at Christmas, when he arrived at my older sister's house
with a black eye. There had been some encounter at a bar, but the details were
sketchy.

"Some motherfucker told me to get the fuck out of his motherfucking face, so I
said, 'Chill, motherfucker.'"

"Then what?"

"Then he turned away, and I reached up and punched him in the back of his
motherfucking neck."

"What happened next?"

"What the fuck you think happened, bitch? I ran like hell, and the motherfucker
caught up with me in the parking lot. He was all beefy and shit. The
motherfucker had a taste for blood, and he just pummeled my ass."

"When did he stop?"

My brother drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a few moments before saying,
"I'm guessing he stopped when he was fucking finished."
The physical pain had passed, but it bothered Paul that his face was "all
lopsided and shit for the licking holidays." That said, he retreated to the
bathroom with my sister Amy's makeup kit and returned to the table with two
black eyes, the second drawn on with mascara. This seemed to please him, and he
wore his matching bruises for the rest of the evening.

"Did you get a load of that fake black eye?" my father asked, struggling for a
positive spin. "That guy ought to do makeup for the movies. I'm telling you,
the kid's a real artist!"

Unlike the rest of us, the Rooster has always enjoyed my father's support and
encouragement. With the dreams of Princeton officially dead and buried, he sent
my brother to technical school, hoping he might express an interest in
computers. Three weeks into the semester, Paul dropped out, and my father,
convinced that his lawn-mowing skills bordered on genius, set him up in the
landscaping business. "I've seen him in action, and what he does is establish a
pattern and really tackle it!"

When the landscaping business failed, my father suggested careers in television
repair, stand-up comedy, and, eventually, professional tennis. "I taped that
Wimbledon match, and I think that once you put a racket in that kid's hands,
the guy will go absolutely bananas. He's got the temperament for it. Now all he
needs are a couple of lessons."

Eventually, my brother fell into the floor-sanding business. It's hard work,
but he enjoys the gratification that comes with a well-finished rec room. He
thoughtfully named his company Silly P's Hardwood Floors. When my father
suggested that the word silly might frighten away the upper-tier customers,
Paul thought of changing the name to "Silly Fucking P's Hardwood Floors." The
work puts him in contact with plumbers and drywallers from such towns as Bunn
and Clayton, men who offer dating advice such as "If she's old enough to bleed,
she's old enough to breed" and "If there's grass on the field, I say it's time
to play ball."

"Oh, Paul," my father says. "Those aren't the sort of people you need to be
associating with. If you want to better yourself, you need to spend more time
with someone who can read or at least get through a single sentence without
spitting."

After all these years, our father has never understood that we, his children,
tend to gravitate toward the very people he's spent his life warning us about.
Most of us have left town, but my brother remains in Raleigh. He was there when
my mother died and, six years later, continues to help my father grieve: "The
past is gone, hoss. What you need now is some motherfucking pussy." While my
sisters and I offer our sympathy long-distance, Paul is the one who arrives at
our father's home on Thanksgiving Day, offering to prepare traditional Greek
dishes to the best of his ability. It is a fact that he once made a tray of
spanakopita using Pam rather than melted butter. Still, though, at least he
tries.

When a recent hurricane damaged my father's house, my brother rushed over with
A gas grill, three coolers full of beer, and a traditional "Fuck-It Bucket"--a
plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite-sized candy bars. ("When shit
brings you down, just say, 'Fuck it' and eat yourself some motherfucking
candy.") There was no electricity for close to a week. The yard was practically
cleared of trees, and rain fell through the dozens of holes torn into the roof.
"Shitting in the woods gets old pretty fucking fast," Paul said. "We're living
like pioneers-all crusty and shit." It was a difficult time, but the two of
them stuck it out, my brother placing his small, scarred hand on my father's
shoulder to say, "Bitch, I'm here to tell you that it's going to be all right.
We'll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait."
~~~~~~~~
BY DAVID SEDARIS