I’m paying our Septic bill in person and say, “If somebody doesn’t pay, you really have them held over a barrel.” 85-year-old Bird laughs and says, “You couldn’t pay me enough to change Biden’s drawers.” I say, “You’re not an opportunistic, perv enabling, small town ho, who outwore the usefulness of her fishnet stockings during her cradle robbing babysitting years. I call this administration the never-ending shit show since the day Democracy died. Anyone who supports, apologizes or enables this shit show of an administration is shit in my book United We Laugh.”
Old Bird says, “I agree, and I would know about never-ending shit shows since my father started this septic tank business in 1922. In fact, my entire life has been shit.”
I say, “Either something in life is great, medium suck or shit.” She says, “There’s nothing shitty about you kid.” And I love that eulogy ghost writer business idea champ.” I add, “Yeah, my new pitch to Funeral Directors is, “Do you employ eulogy ghost writers for hire? Because our religious leaders have failed us post COVID damage done, and our loved ones deserve better send offs than this shit. And if I hear one more Rabbi during the High Holy Days use Holocaust and COVID in the same sentence. You’ll see more body bags than ever, during a Hell in The Cell match between The Undertaker and Triple H.” Old Bird laughs long time.
United we laugh, I prove it every day. What’s my mantra for a winning life in America? Nothing shitty and don’t be a half ass putz like Hair Plugs Sniffer playing President on the fake news White House set. And let’s contemplate God powered light through my 5-Year-old son strumming my Fender Stratocaster, singing, “I tried, I lied, I died. Now, I’m in Heaven with Daddy, the end.” I just quoted my son verbatim; did I mention that he’s 5? Like father like son, nothing shitty from our gene pool today, Challah. Thank you very much.
And this is me making an honest attempt to reconnect with my dad who grew up on the streets of the Bronx.
“Hey Dad, did you know that Edgar Allen Poe used to live in the Bronx near Fordham? Dad says, “How much money did he make off his writing?” I say, “He could afford to drink himself to death. But he was also the 1st well known American writer to a earn a living through writing alone Dad. You were editor of your school newspaper when you attended Clinton in the Bronx. I’m sure you can appreciate that feat.” Dad says, “His prose was weak and maudlin tone was excessively weary.”
I add, “He wrote humor tales to.” Dad says, “I’m sure the gentile from Boston was a barrel of laughs. Edgar Allen Poe wrote humor tales, use that in your act or podcast or whatever you do anymore because that shit is hilarious. You can’t write NOTHING that shitty. Nothing shitty, Challah. Thank you very much.