My Father the Hero

My father and I have an odd relationship, mainly because we are basically the same person - overly sensitive, moody, reactionary, oh, and we love to laugh.  When I was young, he thought it was the funniest thing in the world when I called to him, "Dad!" and he would respond, "I'm not really your father."  He did not think it was so funny when he would tell me to empty the dishwasher, and I would respond, "You can't make me.  You're not really my father." 

Dad loved nothing more than when the neighbor girls/friends of mine would ring our doorbell and ask if I could come out and play.  Although his token response was, "I'm sorry.  She can't.  She died in a car accident this morning," my stupid slut friends, who had heard this line eight times or more, would more often than not burst into tears whilst my father held in a laugh, and I giggled silently around the corner.  At least I knew someone would be sad about my death. 

Today, I received an email forward from Dad.  I do not enjoy forwards - I have learned of loved ones' deaths in forwards, of parasites living in bras, of hypodermic needles in gas pumps.  Does one ever really receive good news in a forward?  No.  This one from Dad was no different, except it was meant to be humorous.  Because it was a fat man who had painted his butt cheeks, when paired together as they so often are, to look like a jack-o-lantern. 

So Dad called:

Dad:  Did you get my forward?

Me:  Yes.  Just know that I hate forwards, and you don't have to send them to me.

Dad:  But this one was funny.

Me:  I'm saying that, as a rule, I don't like forwards.  Don't send them to me.

Dad: Did you open it?

Me:  Yes.

Dad:  And it was funny.

Me:  It was a fat man's ass painted orange.

Dad:  See?  Funny!