Fuck A Cow!

Those were my son’s first memorable words.  He ran out into the living room where a bunch of us were playing Wii, stood in front of one our friends and shouted, “FUCK A COW!” and then ran back into his room.  I have long maintained that when he was old enough to realize how much damage I did to his psyche and life that he would write a scathing book and musical called,


Why my father was unable to love me.

(in interpretive dance and song)


Sure the title is a bit long, but it grabbed your attention didn’t it?  I can imagine some of the scathing dialog already.

“dad was a meanie.”

“Your fired!”

“Your face.”

“This game is too hard.”

“I’m never gonna eat again.”

“I’m never gonna play Pokemon again.”

“I’m never gonna take a bath again.”

“I’m never gonna (insert topic).”

“You’ve ruined my life.”

“Barnacles!” “Tartersauce!” or any other Spongebob “swearword.”

“If you do that, I will…”

“My life was totally trousered while living with him.”

“Why was the answer to most things, no.”

“I only play Pokemon on Saturdays.”

The stories he could tell about me that would scandalize me, well that is if I was someone who was afraid of scandal.

“He cheats at video games.  One time when I was about to win Raskulls he bumped me so hard that I dropped the controller and lost.  I never for forgave him for that.”

“My father was always writing, to this day I have people walking up to me and asking me if I still have that Lego monocle.”

“dad was obsessed with being clean.  I was always busy building Legos, drawing or helping my sister, I didn’t have the time for regular baths.”

“Speaking of clean, I never understood why he wanted the floor of my room clean.  I could walk across the floor without stepping on a Lego, why couldn’t he?”

“Is it bleeding?  That was how my dad treated our injuries, that or chicks dig scars son.”

“I never understood why chicken strips and nuggets were never good enough for him.”

“To this day I have a fear of being picked up after my dad would pick me up, toss me over his shoulder and tickle me all the way out of stores.”

“I blame my sense of fashion on my dad.”

His “dedication” would read, “Dedicated to my father.  Who once famously said in public, Son it is my job, no my duty, as a parent to mentally scar you so that you can keep some therapist employed and that one day you can look back upon everything that I have done to you and write a book.”

Maybe it is just me, but I hope one day to see a book just like this with the companion, “Haikus About the Ponies My Dad Never Bought Me,” by his sister on the virtual shelves of some bookstore that I am browsing.