Father's Day. · 2:05pm Jun 15th, 2014
Haven't got a picture of my father, sadly.
Well, I do, but none online to post here. You'd think with my whole damn family on that cursed website facebook, one would have one posted, right?
Regardless, my plans to celebrate with him will most likely go as follows:
1. Get on a bus/taxi.
2. Proceed to the memorial yard he's buried at.
3. Bring a boombox and a custom burnt CD with one, and ONLY one song to blast as loud as possible.
This song:
Rush's Big Money. A fucking awesome song in it's own right.
And also the band I can clearly recall, listening to with him when I was, what? 3, 4, 5? Anyway. I'll first do that. Then go and chill with family at a BBQ. Fuuuun.
In the meantime, I'll simply post a picture of the single most irritating, grumpy 60-some year old asshole who yells when he gets pissed which is often:
My stepfather: Ray H.
Happy Father's Day, you ancient asshole.
Seriously, I hate him, but love him.
Do me a favor and go wish your father, dead or alive a happy fathers day.
Have a good one, guys!
~Skeeter The Lurker
Dearest condolences on that, but I'll throw up some horns for you today \,,/
\,,/ Rock on, dude!
MMMMM...Barbecue...tangy, tangy barbecue!
th01.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2013/329/3/5/creamy_creamy_frosting_by_gray_gold-d6vcvwo.png
~Dash The Stampede
Have a good one!
Cheers and condolences to your father.
On a side note, what is it with Rays? Every Ray I've ever met has been an asshole, in fictional characters and IRL.
Cheers.
Me and my brother are taking our dad out to Chili's in a few minutes.
Sorry to hear about your own dad, though, Skeeter.
I'm just gonna leave this here
funnymemes.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/Funny-memes-fathers-day.jpg
Father's Day is the day I remember I survived.
My father supposedly made maps for the USGS. Somehow, the World Bank kept 'borrowing' him, sending him all over the world - to the islands of Truk, to Yemen, to Saudi Arabia. He always had money for fancy trucks and telescopes and expensive calculators (don't laugh - in the 70's, a hand-held calculator cost more than an Xbox One does today). I suspect he was a spy, but for who I never found out. It's not a romantic notion. It was hell.
The One Big Rule under my dad was to never, ever, ever talk about anything outside of the family. He was ambitious and ruthless. He never had a friend in his entire life. He would act like a friend to a higher-up in the government, act like the man's best buddy, then dump him forever the moment he finally got a sufficient promotion. He climbed people the way an ape climbs a ladder.
My father was a psychopath. To anyone he wanted something from, he was a macho version of Mr. Rogers - charming, helpful, super-patient, overly muscled. To me and my mother, he was the monster that threw us against walls for minor infractions, who beat and bloodied me over trivialities such as whether I ate my corn on the cob properly. He never actually struck my mother, though.
She had money, a lot of money, and she was smart enough to keep all of her wealth utterly separate from him. But he would scream and yell at her, and break things and threaten her life. She was terrified to talk to anyone, or leave the house.
The last time I saw my father, I was laying in the middle of the street, on a pile of my own clothing he had thrown there. He was on my chest, holding a gun to my head. Just before he killed me, one of my future spouses drove up. Her headlights made him run into the trailer - we lived in a trailer, because we moved every three to six months - saving my life by seconds. By that point, my father was on medication.
My father was on that medication because the government intervened when he shot up the main street of Redwood City, California. He was upset, at the time, that his favorite prostitute had rejected him for being too violent. He had bullied my mother into driving him to see the woman, who was threatening suicide for some other reason. After the SWAT team took him, he faced prison, but somehow, for some reason, he was exempt. So he had to get psychiatric treatment, and retire, from his job of 'making maps'.
My father was a terrible womanizer. My mother showed me the letters she had received from all over the world, from his conquests who had somehow tracked him down. He must have been a very bad spy, if he was one. The one I remember most was dozens of letters from a young girl in the Philippines, the daughter of a clergyman, who kept talking about her baby and how she was waiting for my father, Leonard, to come and marry her like he had promised.
The last time I talked to my father, on the phone, he threatened to kill me if I came to the sudden, unexpected funeral of my mother. Strangely, my mother had suddenly had a turn of heart and given him all of her money - including all of the rest of the money she had been saving up for me since I was born. No inheritance for me. No even showing up in town to pay respects. He would have a gun with him. He was going to say I was dead at the funeral, and if I showed up, he would end me, and then himself.
I knew better than to think he was not one-hundred percent serious.
He immediately married, within days, another woman. A wealthy one.
My father, when he was first married to my mother, worked as a policeman for the LAPD, in the fifties. They kicked him off the force, in disgrace, for brutality. In the ninteen-fifties. Brutality against black people. In the Fifties. I wonder sometimes - what did he do? Turn suspects into deviled-ham with a rusty fork? How brutal was brutal that the 50's LAPD thought it was too horrible even for use on people of color?
I found out from my grandmother, his mother, that he had a whole other family and three kids in Mexico. I never even knew he had ever been to Mexico. Technically, he was still married to that woman when he married my mother. So, I have brothers and sisters, I suppose, all over the globe.
Father's day is the day I know I survived.
The day my father died, the relief, the sheer relief I felt was so intense... never again would I have to fear a heavy knock on my door. He wasn't ever going to come and murder me, as he had promised. He was dead. Dead. Finally, the monster was dead.
Burn, father, burn. Forever.
- Chatoyance
2208870
Holy hell... I... Honestly wish I had something, anything, to say to that...
But, good lord... Props to you for surviving that, for sure!
~Skeeter The Lurker
2208870 ...what the fuck?
2208889
...Not the place, mate.
Please.
~Skeeter The Lurker
2208890 It's just... who just posts that on a Father's Day blog? That's the kind of stuff you make your own blog post for...
2208870 I concur with Skeeter; I wish I had something to say to that.
Sorry to learn that your father is dead.