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» Dad stories
Invictus
My dad was born to barely literate parents in the basement of a Chicago apartment building in 1927. For the first six months of his life I he was a fine, healthy baby, but after that it went quickly downhill.
He contracted polio.
As a result, he has never walked without pain or a pronounced limp. As a second result, his father rejected him out of ignorance, fear, and god knows what other character flaws. To say dad had a hard childhood is a colossal understatement. His father was merciless, and when a younger brother was born it was as though dad evaporated.
He became a teacher and put up with his parents' assinine statements like "since those who can't do, teach, that's perfect for him" and worse. He wound up specializing in teaching students in bad situations--criminal records, badly broken homes, behvioral or physical problems--and quite literally saved a few lives. To this day he still gets letters from his students thanking him for what he did.
On his first teaching assignment in 1951 he went running (such as it was) to tend to an injured kid. With his unsteady gait he planted his good leg wrong and proceeded to destroy his good knee, bending it completely backward. He narrowly avoided amputation (orthopaedic surgery was not so precise in those days) but was now very much crippled for life. Nine surgeries later they gave up and simply fused his knee joint--it doesn't bend anywhere between his hip and his ankle.
Still...he never gave up. He couldn't run, but he had a cannon for a pitching arm and could hit the ball out of the park with ease. And even though he couldn't play (American) football, he loved the game so much that he would go on to coach it, referee it, and when he could no longer do that, he became the broadcast voice of the local high school team on the radio.
He married the girl he met in high school and had four kids with her, putting all of us through college on a teacher's salary. He and my mom took in more than a couple of strays, mostly students of his who were really on the edge. Some stayed a few weeks, others for years, and they even took custody of one to keep her out of jail. She went on to become a university professor.
He has been retired for almost 25 years, and his health has steadily gotten worse. Three months ago he fell in the middle of the night, resulting in a trip to the hospital, a surgical intervention, and a lengthy rehab--as of this writing, he's still not home yet but should be released any day. I saw him last weekend and he looks better than he has in years. I asked his rehab nurse how he was doing.
"You know," she said, "I have never worked with a patient who is more determined than he is. He keeps trying until he is exhausted. He never gives up."
I told my dad this, and he looked at me for a minute before his eyes got misty. "I can't give up. Trying is the only think I know. If I did quit, I'm not sure what would happen."
Invictus. Unconquerable. Unbowed. Unafraid. That's my dad. Though he never scaled a mountain or ascended the heights of society or business, he showed us what really counts--no matter the obstacle, never give up. Never.
So, Dad, here is your favorite poem.
There once was a man from Bombay
Who fashioned a cunt out of clay
But the heat from his prick
Turned the damn thing to brick
And it ripped all his foreskin away
(Tue 30th Nov 2010, 17:21, More)
Invictus
My dad was born to barely literate parents in the basement of a Chicago apartment building in 1927. For the first six months of his life I he was a fine, healthy baby, but after that it went quickly downhill.
He contracted polio.
As a result, he has never walked without pain or a pronounced limp. As a second result, his father rejected him out of ignorance, fear, and god knows what other character flaws. To say dad had a hard childhood is a colossal understatement. His father was merciless, and when a younger brother was born it was as though dad evaporated.
He became a teacher and put up with his parents' assinine statements like "since those who can't do, teach, that's perfect for him" and worse. He wound up specializing in teaching students in bad situations--criminal records, badly broken homes, behvioral or physical problems--and quite literally saved a few lives. To this day he still gets letters from his students thanking him for what he did.
On his first teaching assignment in 1951 he went running (such as it was) to tend to an injured kid. With his unsteady gait he planted his good leg wrong and proceeded to destroy his good knee, bending it completely backward. He narrowly avoided amputation (orthopaedic surgery was not so precise in those days) but was now very much crippled for life. Nine surgeries later they gave up and simply fused his knee joint--it doesn't bend anywhere between his hip and his ankle.
Still...he never gave up. He couldn't run, but he had a cannon for a pitching arm and could hit the ball out of the park with ease. And even though he couldn't play (American) football, he loved the game so much that he would go on to coach it, referee it, and when he could no longer do that, he became the broadcast voice of the local high school team on the radio.
He married the girl he met in high school and had four kids with her, putting all of us through college on a teacher's salary. He and my mom took in more than a couple of strays, mostly students of his who were really on the edge. Some stayed a few weeks, others for years, and they even took custody of one to keep her out of jail. She went on to become a university professor.
He has been retired for almost 25 years, and his health has steadily gotten worse. Three months ago he fell in the middle of the night, resulting in a trip to the hospital, a surgical intervention, and a lengthy rehab--as of this writing, he's still not home yet but should be released any day. I saw him last weekend and he looks better than he has in years. I asked his rehab nurse how he was doing.
"You know," she said, "I have never worked with a patient who is more determined than he is. He keeps trying until he is exhausted. He never gives up."
I told my dad this, and he looked at me for a minute before his eyes got misty. "I can't give up. Trying is the only think I know. If I did quit, I'm not sure what would happen."
Invictus. Unconquerable. Unbowed. Unafraid. That's my dad. Though he never scaled a mountain or ascended the heights of society or business, he showed us what really counts--no matter the obstacle, never give up. Never.
So, Dad, here is your favorite poem.
There once was a man from Bombay
Who fashioned a cunt out of clay
But the heat from his prick
Turned the damn thing to brick
And it ripped all his foreskin away
(Tue 30th Nov 2010, 17:21, More)
» Overcoming adversity
Have a pea
Not me, but my dad.
--------------
My dad was born to barely literate parents in the basement of a Chicago apartment building in 1927. For the first six months he was a fine, healthy baby, but after that his life went quickly downhill.
He contracted polio.
As a result, he has never walked without pain or a pronounced limp. As a second result, his father rejected him out of ignorance, fear, and god knows what other character flaws. To say dad had a hard childhood is a colossal understatement. His father was merciless, and when a younger brother was born it was as though dad evaporated.
He became a teacher and put up with his parents' assinine statements like "since those who can't do, teach, that's perfect for him" and worse. He wound up specializing in teaching students in bad situations--criminal records, badly broken homes, behavioral or physical problems--and quite literally saved a few lives. To this day he still gets letters from his students thanking him for what he did.
On his first teaching assignment in 1951 he went running (such as it was) to tend to an injured kid. With his unsteady gait he planted his good leg wrong and proceeded to destroy his good knee, bending it completely backward. He narrowly avoided amputation (orthopaedic surgery was not so precise in those days) but was now very much crippled for life. Nine surgeries later they gave up and simply fused his knee joint--it doesn't bend anywhere between his hip and his ankle.
Still...he never gave up. He couldn't run, but he had a cannon for a pitching arm and could hit the ball out of the park with ease. And even though he couldn't play (American) football, he loved the game so much that he would go on to coach it, referee it, and when he could no longer do that, he became the broadcast voice of the local high school team on the radio.
He married the girl he met in high school and had four kids with her, putting all of us through college on a teacher's salary. He and my mom took in more than a couple of strays, mostly students of his who were really on the edge. Some stayed a few weeks, others for years, and they even took custody of one to keep her out of jail. She went on to become a university professor.
He has been retired for almost 25 years, and his health has steadily gotten worse. A couple of years ago he fell in the middle of the night, resulting in a trip to the hospital, a surgical intervention, a pacemaker and a lengthy rehab--all together, about 4 months. I visited him often and talked to his nurses to get a fuller picture of his recovery. One of his rehab nurses has this to say about his progress:
"You know," she said, "I have never worked with a patient who is more determined than he is. He keeps trying until he is exhausted. He never gives up."
I told my dad this, and he looked at me for a minute before his eyes got misty. "I can't give up. Trying is the only thing I know. If I quit, I'm not sure what would happen."
He's still around, though each time I visit he's a little bit weaker, a little bit closer to the end. Still, he insists on helping my mom with what he can around the house, and insists on making a batch of his spaghetti sauce every once in a while, even though he can no longer reach some of the items from the shelf to make it.
That's my dad. He has overcome many more obstacles than most of us will, and has never given up. He fought through all of that just so that he could make a normal life for himself and his family.
Small wonder his favorite poem is this one: www.poemhunter.com/poem/invictus/
(Fri 14th Dec 2012, 7:01, More)
Have a pea
Not me, but my dad.
--------------
My dad was born to barely literate parents in the basement of a Chicago apartment building in 1927. For the first six months he was a fine, healthy baby, but after that his life went quickly downhill.
He contracted polio.
As a result, he has never walked without pain or a pronounced limp. As a second result, his father rejected him out of ignorance, fear, and god knows what other character flaws. To say dad had a hard childhood is a colossal understatement. His father was merciless, and when a younger brother was born it was as though dad evaporated.
He became a teacher and put up with his parents' assinine statements like "since those who can't do, teach, that's perfect for him" and worse. He wound up specializing in teaching students in bad situations--criminal records, badly broken homes, behavioral or physical problems--and quite literally saved a few lives. To this day he still gets letters from his students thanking him for what he did.
On his first teaching assignment in 1951 he went running (such as it was) to tend to an injured kid. With his unsteady gait he planted his good leg wrong and proceeded to destroy his good knee, bending it completely backward. He narrowly avoided amputation (orthopaedic surgery was not so precise in those days) but was now very much crippled for life. Nine surgeries later they gave up and simply fused his knee joint--it doesn't bend anywhere between his hip and his ankle.
Still...he never gave up. He couldn't run, but he had a cannon for a pitching arm and could hit the ball out of the park with ease. And even though he couldn't play (American) football, he loved the game so much that he would go on to coach it, referee it, and when he could no longer do that, he became the broadcast voice of the local high school team on the radio.
He married the girl he met in high school and had four kids with her, putting all of us through college on a teacher's salary. He and my mom took in more than a couple of strays, mostly students of his who were really on the edge. Some stayed a few weeks, others for years, and they even took custody of one to keep her out of jail. She went on to become a university professor.
He has been retired for almost 25 years, and his health has steadily gotten worse. A couple of years ago he fell in the middle of the night, resulting in a trip to the hospital, a surgical intervention, a pacemaker and a lengthy rehab--all together, about 4 months. I visited him often and talked to his nurses to get a fuller picture of his recovery. One of his rehab nurses has this to say about his progress:
"You know," she said, "I have never worked with a patient who is more determined than he is. He keeps trying until he is exhausted. He never gives up."
I told my dad this, and he looked at me for a minute before his eyes got misty. "I can't give up. Trying is the only thing I know. If I quit, I'm not sure what would happen."
He's still around, though each time I visit he's a little bit weaker, a little bit closer to the end. Still, he insists on helping my mom with what he can around the house, and insists on making a batch of his spaghetti sauce every once in a while, even though he can no longer reach some of the items from the shelf to make it.
That's my dad. He has overcome many more obstacles than most of us will, and has never given up. He fought through all of that just so that he could make a normal life for himself and his family.
Small wonder his favorite poem is this one: www.poemhunter.com/poem/invictus/
(Fri 14th Dec 2012, 7:01, More)
» Beautiful Moments, Part Two
A cup of coffee (and you may want to get one as this is a bit long...)
Nine years ago I was coming out of a particularly bad stretch of things--divorce, a job that had me traveling 'most all the time, a falling out with my family, and the icing on the cake was a psychotic stalker ex-girlfriend who cost me many sleepless nights and many thousands of dollars in legal costs to simply leave me alone. (She was truly mentally ill but decided that taking her meds was optional. Lucky me. Amazing how a high-functioning physician who happens to also be a crazy person can keep up a facade for two months of dating...but I digress...)
My trust in people had been badly shaken, my ability to relax and enjoy anything was gone, and my relationships--friends, family, and romantic--had all suffered. I was a mess--alive, but not well, drinking quite a bit, teetering on the brink of depression. It was only a matter of time before I came off the rails completely.
Part of the way I acted this out was by becoming something of a sexual adventurer (read: lothario, aka male slut.) I began having fairly anonymous flings but never getting involved. I discovered internet dating and sites like adultfriendfinder (in its early days quite the place), alt.com, nerve.com personals (great site--they billed themselves as "literate smut", and attracted slightly more intellectual horny people) and even match.com and yahoo personals would yield up occasional liaisons. In 1999-2001 it was still a novelty, and there was much casual sex to be had in and around the San Francisco area where I lived.
At that time if one was in his early 30s, could write an entertaining ad, could follow it up with good email banter, was decently handsome, and in the case of the adult sites, had a few nice pics of key body parts, one could fall madly in bed almost at will. My record: two hours from initial email. That includes a one-hour drive.
Trust me kiddies…while this may sound like fun and games it's not all it's cracked up to be. Despite all of the beast-with-two-backs-making, it's hollow as hollow can be and it's a short step from there to full-blown (snicker) sexual addiction. It can distort one’s view of life and love and women and men and one’s self. But it was also exciting as hell (will she be a goer? will she pull a knife?) and for someone who had stopped feeling very much except lust it was a way to remind myself I was still alive.
So…where was the beauty in all of this debauchery? I shall only call her L, for she enjoys some fame and success in her field. Eight years older than me, an artist in Chicago, and a sharp-minded flirt. While not classically beautiful, she had quiet charisma, an air of goodness, and a hot petite body. Some email and picture exchange, chat, and phone, and within a few weeks I am on a plane to Chicago for a weekend of…who knows what? Like I said, not knowing what to expect was part of the thrill.
She met me at the airport, we kissed on the way to her car, and by the time we reached her apartment we were tearing one another’s clothes off—in part due to passion, but also because Chicago in July is bloody hot and humid. We proceeded to do the dirty hula for a few hours, took a break to have dinner, then went back to her place only to go at it again until the wee hours. I remember her falling asleep on my chest, sweaty and sticking to me, and as I drifted off I wondered if she would tie me to the bed in the night and cut out my liver. Luckily, my liver would survive only to be abused for many more years.
I didn’t feel her slip out of bed in the morning and was only barely aware that I was someplace new, but as I spent most of my life in hotels this was not unusual. When I finally became fully conscious and opened my eyes I took in the scene as I heard L puttering about the kitchen. The morning sun was slanting through the windows, dancing across the offbeat, eclectic décor. Her cat was stretched out in a pool of sunlight, flicking his black tail. It was not quite cool, but the heat of the day had not yet arrived, and all of my bits had that wonderful pearly ache of having been ridden hard and joyously for several hours.
And then…there was L, curly red hair still mussed, smiling, barefoot, and wrapped in a sarong, strolling across the apartment with a mug of strong, hot coffee and milk for me.
In that moment, the havoc and tumult of the preceding four years largely dissolved. The simple act of bringing me a cup of coffee in bed touched me and reminded me of the goodness that people can do to each other. A solitary gesture of kindness, a bit of generosity, and curling up in bed next to me as the coffee cleared away the cobwebs was all it took to bring beauty and a measure of contentment back to my life.
That weekend was the last time I saw her. We stayed in touch for a while, but ultimately agreed that the distance was too great, and I was a bit too mainstream for her tastes. Nonetheless, I will go to my grave with the beauty of that moment in my memory and gratitude in my heart for L.
Length…I think that’s rather obvious now, isn’t it? And width to match...
(Wed 11th Aug 2010, 3:41, More)
A cup of coffee (and you may want to get one as this is a bit long...)
Nine years ago I was coming out of a particularly bad stretch of things--divorce, a job that had me traveling 'most all the time, a falling out with my family, and the icing on the cake was a psychotic stalker ex-girlfriend who cost me many sleepless nights and many thousands of dollars in legal costs to simply leave me alone. (She was truly mentally ill but decided that taking her meds was optional. Lucky me. Amazing how a high-functioning physician who happens to also be a crazy person can keep up a facade for two months of dating...but I digress...)
My trust in people had been badly shaken, my ability to relax and enjoy anything was gone, and my relationships--friends, family, and romantic--had all suffered. I was a mess--alive, but not well, drinking quite a bit, teetering on the brink of depression. It was only a matter of time before I came off the rails completely.
Part of the way I acted this out was by becoming something of a sexual adventurer (read: lothario, aka male slut.) I began having fairly anonymous flings but never getting involved. I discovered internet dating and sites like adultfriendfinder (in its early days quite the place), alt.com, nerve.com personals (great site--they billed themselves as "literate smut", and attracted slightly more intellectual horny people) and even match.com and yahoo personals would yield up occasional liaisons. In 1999-2001 it was still a novelty, and there was much casual sex to be had in and around the San Francisco area where I lived.
At that time if one was in his early 30s, could write an entertaining ad, could follow it up with good email banter, was decently handsome, and in the case of the adult sites, had a few nice pics of key body parts, one could fall madly in bed almost at will. My record: two hours from initial email. That includes a one-hour drive.
Trust me kiddies…while this may sound like fun and games it's not all it's cracked up to be. Despite all of the beast-with-two-backs-making, it's hollow as hollow can be and it's a short step from there to full-blown (snicker) sexual addiction. It can distort one’s view of life and love and women and men and one’s self. But it was also exciting as hell (will she be a goer? will she pull a knife?) and for someone who had stopped feeling very much except lust it was a way to remind myself I was still alive.
So…where was the beauty in all of this debauchery? I shall only call her L, for she enjoys some fame and success in her field. Eight years older than me, an artist in Chicago, and a sharp-minded flirt. While not classically beautiful, she had quiet charisma, an air of goodness, and a hot petite body. Some email and picture exchange, chat, and phone, and within a few weeks I am on a plane to Chicago for a weekend of…who knows what? Like I said, not knowing what to expect was part of the thrill.
She met me at the airport, we kissed on the way to her car, and by the time we reached her apartment we were tearing one another’s clothes off—in part due to passion, but also because Chicago in July is bloody hot and humid. We proceeded to do the dirty hula for a few hours, took a break to have dinner, then went back to her place only to go at it again until the wee hours. I remember her falling asleep on my chest, sweaty and sticking to me, and as I drifted off I wondered if she would tie me to the bed in the night and cut out my liver. Luckily, my liver would survive only to be abused for many more years.
I didn’t feel her slip out of bed in the morning and was only barely aware that I was someplace new, but as I spent most of my life in hotels this was not unusual. When I finally became fully conscious and opened my eyes I took in the scene as I heard L puttering about the kitchen. The morning sun was slanting through the windows, dancing across the offbeat, eclectic décor. Her cat was stretched out in a pool of sunlight, flicking his black tail. It was not quite cool, but the heat of the day had not yet arrived, and all of my bits had that wonderful pearly ache of having been ridden hard and joyously for several hours.
And then…there was L, curly red hair still mussed, smiling, barefoot, and wrapped in a sarong, strolling across the apartment with a mug of strong, hot coffee and milk for me.
In that moment, the havoc and tumult of the preceding four years largely dissolved. The simple act of bringing me a cup of coffee in bed touched me and reminded me of the goodness that people can do to each other. A solitary gesture of kindness, a bit of generosity, and curling up in bed next to me as the coffee cleared away the cobwebs was all it took to bring beauty and a measure of contentment back to my life.
That weekend was the last time I saw her. We stayed in touch for a while, but ultimately agreed that the distance was too great, and I was a bit too mainstream for her tastes. Nonetheless, I will go to my grave with the beauty of that moment in my memory and gratitude in my heart for L.
Length…I think that’s rather obvious now, isn’t it? And width to match...
(Wed 11th Aug 2010, 3:41, More)
» The Apocalypse
Maybe it's me...
...but here's a short list of the natural events I've been in/around/through:
1987 Whittier, California earthquake
-- I lived over the hill from Whittier. House suffered only minor structural damage. Pain in the arse commuting for a few days, but not a big deal.
1988 49er Fire, California
-- Happened near my home town. Had to help a friend evacuate his place which was in the line of the flames. Used back roads to sneak around road blocks to get in and out with his belongings. Fire was across the river from his place as we were loading my truck, and when we left were unsure if we'd return to an intact building or a pile of ashes. Fortunately the fire was contained before his place burned. Minor smoke inhalation for me.
1989 San Francisco earthquake (technically the Loma Prieta quake)
-- Was in my office in downtown San Francisco. Rode my office building as it swayed and allowed me to see around the corner of the building across the street. Took 8 hours to get across the bay to a relative's home. Again, not much damage personally, but in the aftermath the commute around the bay was messed up. It is because of this altered traffic pattern that I met the first Mrs. Grundig. As she is now the first ex-Mrs. Grundig, this can hardly be considered a complete dodge of the bullet. (N.B.--Never refer to your ex-wife as your >first< ex-wife when your current wife is in earshot. Bad things result.)
1991 Oakland Hills Fire, California (see a pattern here?)
-- Was at home when it flared up on the ridge behind where I lived. The situation went from "Gee, it's smoky out there," to "Holy shit, the building is on fire!" in about 5 minutes. Grabbed what I could and left in my car, sending the first Mrs. Grundig on her way ahead of me in her car. We took separate routes out. She was unscathed. I nearly burned to death in my car. Lost everything I owned, except the clothes on my back and a car with bubbled paint. I am honest when I say that I was glad to be merely alive.
1993 Storm of the Century
-- Was in Atlanta, Georgia for business on the Friday that this thing hit. Being a southern city, Atlanta is not equipped for much snow. They got 16 inches. Was stuck in the hotel through the weekend with no power or heat. Hotel management opened the bar and the vending machine stock as there was no other food. Made a few friends. Froze my arse off.
There are more, but these are the ones that affected me most. The current Mrs. Grundig sometimes scoffs at the stock of food, water, and other necessities I keep on hand. The silly cow. I smile, nod, and think about rotating out the perishables.
tl; dr: I am a disaster magnet.
(Wed 20th Jun 2012, 6:27, More)
Maybe it's me...
...but here's a short list of the natural events I've been in/around/through:
1987 Whittier, California earthquake
-- I lived over the hill from Whittier. House suffered only minor structural damage. Pain in the arse commuting for a few days, but not a big deal.
1988 49er Fire, California
-- Happened near my home town. Had to help a friend evacuate his place which was in the line of the flames. Used back roads to sneak around road blocks to get in and out with his belongings. Fire was across the river from his place as we were loading my truck, and when we left were unsure if we'd return to an intact building or a pile of ashes. Fortunately the fire was contained before his place burned. Minor smoke inhalation for me.
1989 San Francisco earthquake (technically the Loma Prieta quake)
-- Was in my office in downtown San Francisco. Rode my office building as it swayed and allowed me to see around the corner of the building across the street. Took 8 hours to get across the bay to a relative's home. Again, not much damage personally, but in the aftermath the commute around the bay was messed up. It is because of this altered traffic pattern that I met the first Mrs. Grundig. As she is now the first ex-Mrs. Grundig, this can hardly be considered a complete dodge of the bullet. (N.B.--Never refer to your ex-wife as your >first< ex-wife when your current wife is in earshot. Bad things result.)
1991 Oakland Hills Fire, California (see a pattern here?)
-- Was at home when it flared up on the ridge behind where I lived. The situation went from "Gee, it's smoky out there," to "Holy shit, the building is on fire!" in about 5 minutes. Grabbed what I could and left in my car, sending the first Mrs. Grundig on her way ahead of me in her car. We took separate routes out. She was unscathed. I nearly burned to death in my car. Lost everything I owned, except the clothes on my back and a car with bubbled paint. I am honest when I say that I was glad to be merely alive.
1993 Storm of the Century
-- Was in Atlanta, Georgia for business on the Friday that this thing hit. Being a southern city, Atlanta is not equipped for much snow. They got 16 inches. Was stuck in the hotel through the weekend with no power or heat. Hotel management opened the bar and the vending machine stock as there was no other food. Made a few friends. Froze my arse off.
There are more, but these are the ones that affected me most. The current Mrs. Grundig sometimes scoffs at the stock of food, water, and other necessities I keep on hand. The silly cow. I smile, nod, and think about rotating out the perishables.
tl; dr: I am a disaster magnet.
(Wed 20th Jun 2012, 6:27, More)
» Killed to DEATH
Many moons ago...
I was driving across the Nevada desert with my sister returning from our grandma's funeral (no, it wasn't granny that I killed--read on.) As one might expect, the mood was a bit somber, with occasional sniffles coming from the passenger side of the car and "there, there" from my side.
Sis had just started another bit of waterworks when WHAP! a large brown bird flew into the windscreen directly in front of her. At 70+ mph it was instantly lights out for Mr. Feathers. Sis, being already a bit emotionally ragged, was now sobbing over the death of this innocent creature.
Having run out of "there, theres" about 150 miles prior I decided to take a different tack in soothing her. I asked, "Do you have any idea of the last thing that went through that bird's mind?"
"No," she replied.
"Well, at that speed, I think it was probably his butt."
For the rest of the trip any impending tears were soon followed by giggles and a muttered "His butt!"
Result!
(Fri 23rd Dec 2011, 21:25, More)
Many moons ago...
I was driving across the Nevada desert with my sister returning from our grandma's funeral (no, it wasn't granny that I killed--read on.) As one might expect, the mood was a bit somber, with occasional sniffles coming from the passenger side of the car and "there, there" from my side.
Sis had just started another bit of waterworks when WHAP! a large brown bird flew into the windscreen directly in front of her. At 70+ mph it was instantly lights out for Mr. Feathers. Sis, being already a bit emotionally ragged, was now sobbing over the death of this innocent creature.
Having run out of "there, theres" about 150 miles prior I decided to take a different tack in soothing her. I asked, "Do you have any idea of the last thing that went through that bird's mind?"
"No," she replied.
"Well, at that speed, I think it was probably his butt."
For the rest of the trip any impending tears were soon followed by giggles and a muttered "His butt!"
Result!
(Fri 23rd Dec 2011, 21:25, More)