My Dad likes to keep his pimp hand strong
While I was in Georgia, my parents were wandering around unsupervised. For those who don’t know, my parents are visiting from England. So I asked my dad what he had been doing. “I’ve been running whores.” For those who aren’t used to my dad’s brand of comedy he might come off as a bit brash. He reminds me a little of Ronnie the Limo Driver of Howard Stern fame. Not quite as obnoxious, but more than willing to be inappropriate at almost any time. So you’d think my mom might be a bit of a calming influence on my old man. No such luck. She is laughing so hard that tears are streaming down her cheeks. Where my parents live in a small town in England with a couple of pubs from which they watch Euro Sport and complain about the weather. There are no prostitutes. Now in the big city my parents, while venturing out late one night to find a place to drink a pint encountered some, according to dad, woman of the evening. And when my dad says the word “whore” he pronounces it, “who-oar.” I have no idea if that is a British thing, a county Cork/Irish dialect or he just can’t correctly pronounce that word. So then it hits me. I still have a very immature sense of humor, but have hoped that as I have gotten older I would reach some sort of maturity. As I look at my dad retelling his story, my mom laughing uncontrollably and adding in some sordid details to enhance the story, I realize that I am doomed to forever to a third grade mentality. This Friday I leave for Singapore for four days and shudder at what might happen to them while I’m gone.
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