Well, the good news is, my dad thinks at least SOME of the internet people exist now. The bad news is, you’re not invited over to dinner.
I think the most exciting thing to happen for my dad recently is that he’s decided that Ken’s totally a hired assassin.
I know. I KNOW. You’re either thinking one of two things: a., AAAH! A HIRED ASSASSIN! Or, b., Awesome! What a neat job!
I’m thinking it’s probably a little more of b. I don’t think he’ll kill any of you. Well, unless someone paid him really well to do so. I mean, it’s his JOB. You can’t ask someone not to do their JOB. They’d get FIRED.
This all came about because Ken mentioned he had a U.S. mailing address even though he lives overseas in one of my blog comments. I don’t know how this came up in conversation with my father. You all read my blog. You know my tendency to ramble. Talking to me in real life? Amazingly similar. It’s like visiting the Salvation Army on drop-off day, having a conversation with me. You never KNOW what you’ll find. Could be trash! Could be treasure! Anyway, the conversation with my father after this came up:
Dad: Oh. So this guy’s probably a hired assassin, then.
Me: WHAT? No, I’m fairly sure he’s not. He seems very calm.
Dad: You’d have to be. To be a hired assassin. Calm. Cool. Collected.
Me: This is off-topic. What does this have to do with mailing addresses?
Dad: That’s what they DO. They have multiple mailing addresses.
Me: That’s what WHO does. Hired assassins?
Me: Why would they have multiple mailing addresses? How would you even KNOW something like that?
Dad: EVERYONE knows that, Amy.
So apparently, everyone knows that hired assassins have multiple mailing addresses. EVERYONE KNOWS.
(My dad watches a lot of Netflix. I’m going to assume this nugget of info about hired assassins came from some movie he watched. Unless it truly is something you all know and I don’t. I don’t rule that out. I mean, everyone in the world knew about leprous armadillos except me. So it could happen. It’s happened before.)
Now, when confronted with the truth about his occupation, Ken denied it. But of course he did. I mean, what would you do if you were confronted with a top-secret profession on Twitter? You’d deny, deny, deny, too, right? Of course you would. I mean, who’d hire you as an assassin if everyone knew you WERE an assassin? It’d be pretty hard to fly under the radar if, when people saw you enter a room, they were all, “SHIT THERE’S THE ASSASSIN,” you know?
Ken even tried to pretend he was a dirty hippie to get out of the hired assassin accusation and said he listened to NPR and would pray for the soul of his meat before he ate it, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they DO. EVERYONE knows that.
So, to further the tangled web, my dad is totally into Jim. No, not in a gross way. He’s just cool with Jim. He thinks Jim is a-OK. I assume this is because one time I told him that Jim loved the posts where I put in a Dad-conversation. See, Dad is all, “DON’T YOU BLOG ABOUT ME” but when I do and then tell him “it was a Dad blog day” he’s all “What? I TOLD YOU STOP IT” and then in the next breath he’s all “so…what’d people think, they like that alright?” He’s totally a reluctant celebrity, that dad of mine.
So Jim’s my dad’s favorite. My dad would totally be cool with Jim coming over for dinner. He would NOT be cool with Ken coming over for dinner. First, because he’s pretty sure Ken would assassinate him. Second, because he’s a dirty NPR-listening hippie.
Oh. I should probably explain this dinner situtation, which probably only makes sense in my own head. I made up this imaginary dinner? Where the internet people come over to my parents’ house for dinner. It’s not a thing. Except for in my head. In my head, it is such a totally awesome thing, I can’t even tell you. We would have such a grand time.
Probably also I should explain the NPR thing. There is ONE NEWS SOURCE in my dad’s world. That is Fox News. It is FAIR and it is BALANCED. If you watch/listen to anything else, that is “government propaganda news” and it is only telling you “what the government wants you to believe.” So anyone who listens/watches anything OTHER than Fox News for their news is a dirty hippie, or possibly brainwashed. And, just to be FAIR and BALANCED, I’m ALSO a dirty hippie, because I put the channel-blocker thingy on Fox News in my house so I don’t even accidentally come across it when I’m channel-flipping and give myself high blood pressure. I guess watching things that are FAIR and BALANCED gives me a potential stroke. Also, it makes my dad really mad when he visits that there’s no Fox News on my television. I just tell him that, since I live in Albany and we’re a hotbed of liberalism, it isn’t offered in my cable package. When I told him that, he said, “Figures. Damn Albany liberals, censoring the only REAL NEWS.” AND, AND, I recently read this news story – granted, it wasn’t on Fox News, so it’s probably what the government WANTS me to read – that said they did a test of all the major news outlets, and the one that tested MOST fair and balanced, actually, was PBS. So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Dad, the damn dirty hippies at PBS are winning!
So Ken told me the other day that if being a champion packer made him a hired assassin, then he was probably a hired assassin. I should probably look that tweet up because I remember it being a lot funnier than that. I’m pretty sure I butchered that right to little bloody pieces. No, no, wait, I did research, I felt really bad about my butchery, here.
If being a near flawless packer is a sign of me being an assassin @lucysfootball, then I just might be guilty as charged.
— Ken Macbeth (@lahikmajoe) March 6, 2012
So listen, my dad is the BEST at packing. Spatial relations and my dad are BFFs. One time he got my whole APARTMENT to fit in my TRUNK. No, I’m totally serious.
So in an attempt to get Ken back in my dad’s good graces so we could all have this imaginary nice dinner without anyone yelling at anyone, I thought, I will TELL him how good Ken is at PACKING, because if there’s anything Dad respects, it’s a man who knows how to pack a suitcase effectively.
Me: Oh, you know how you think my friend Ken in Germany is a hired assassin?
Dad: I don’t want to talk about that right now, it’s too scary.
Me: Too bad, I found a thing that will make you like him.
Dad: NOTHING will make me like him. I can’t believe you’re still talking to an assassin on a daily basis. He KILLS PEOPLE FOR A LIVING.
Me: Well, I’m pretty sure you made that up in your head one time, but ANYWAY, today he was packing for a trip to Berlin and he was VERY GOOD AT IT.
Dad: Wait, he’s going to Berlin? That’s what they do. THAT’S WHAT THEY DO.
Me: You’re missing the point. That’s what WHO does?
Dad: THE KILLERS.
Me: The killers go to Berlin?
Me: OK, let’s put a pin in that for now. What about the packing? You LOVE packing. You’re VERY GOOD at packing. So is Ken! See? Now you’d have something to talk about! You could be friends!
Dad: You know when he told you he was packing what he really meant, right?
Me: Um. I’m pretty sure he mentioned his suitcase. No, what did he really mean?
Dad: HEAT. He meant HEAT. He was packing HEAT. It was a EUPHEMISM.
Me: Oh, no. No, I didn’t…
Dad: THIS IS PROOF HE IS A KILLER.
Me: No. SUITCASES. This was supposed to MAKE YOU TWO BE FRIENDS.
Dad: Nope. Packing means guns, and guns means killers.
Me: This is never going to end well, is it.
Dad: If by “end well” you mean “your friend is going to murder us both in our sleep because you tell everyone your personal business on the internet” then yes, it’s going to end WONDERFULLY.
Me: Can we go back to the pinned topic of why killers go to Berlin?
Dad: Because of communism.
Dad: IT’S WHAT THEY DO.
Oh, and in case you were wondering if Andreas is invited to the imaginary dinner we’re having in my head, you probably already guessed, based on the spoiler alert above, that nope. It’s just my mom, dad, me, and Jim. I’m not even sure if Jim’s family is invited. Probably they are. I can’t imagine my dad telling them they have to stay home, that’d be rude.
No, Andreas is persona non grata because one time I told my dad Andreas lived in Finland, because when I first met Andreas, I thought Andreas lived in Finland because I think he mentioned he was Finnish so I made one of my typical Amy-assumptions and decided he lived in Finland. (SIDE NOTE. Want to make my dad laugh like a moron? Listen to him when I say “Finland” for him. See, I don’t say “Finland” like a normal person would say Finland. No, no. Not THIS lady. A normal person says Finland like this: “Fin-lund.” With the emphasis on the Fin. I say Finland like this: “Fin-LAYND” with the emphasis placed MOST EMPHATICALLY on the “land” so it sounds like a land which is made up of all the fins. Or Finns, I guess, which is what it is. I don’t say England this way. Or Scotland. Just Finland. I don’t know why. I just do. And it makes my dad laugh HYSTERICALLY. Every TIME. OH WAIT. No, I take it back, I say Iceland that way, too. I think it’s an accent that only I have, what’s up with that? I have a one-person regional accent. AWESOME.)
ANYWAY. So a few months later, Andreas told me he ACTUALLY lived on the Isle of Man, which is for another post because that’s just fascinating stuff all around. But so a few weeks later I was chatting with my dad about something and he asked “How’s your friend who is a scientist, where’s he live?” so I would say Finland for him and he’d laugh and laugh and I said, “ZOMG, DAD! Guess WHAT? Andreas doesn’t even LIVE in Finland! I made it up all in my HEAD!” and he was SO PUT OUT BY THIS INFO.
Dad: Wait. He told you he was from Finland and he ISN’T EVEN FROM FINLAND? Those internet people are all liars.
Me: No, it was my fault, I made a thing up. He IS Finnish. He just doesn’t LIVE there.
Dad: Nope. He LIED.
Me: No! He really didn’t! You know how I make things up a lot. He’s very nice and not at all a liar.
Dad: Probably he works for the government.
Me: What? Why does he work for the government?
Dad: That’s what undercover spies do. They lie about things. But, over time, their cover stories start to slip. Now you know too much. You could be in serious trouble, here.
Me: So…am I in trouble with the Finnish government, or…
Dad: IT’S ALL THE SAME.
Me: Wait, all GOVERNMENTS are the same? I don’t think that’s the case.
Dad: We might never know what one he works for. He might work for OURS.
Me: But I thought they were all the same.
Me: This is exhausting.
Dad: Imagine how tiring it is to be one of the few people who have it all figured out!
So Andreas can’t come. Because he’s an undercover spy for…um…some government. I’m not sure which. Might be all. Ken can’t come. Because of the murdering. (I think Ken might be too busy assassinating people, though, so that’s probably ok with him. He’s spread pretty thin with the assassin gig. I get it.) JIM, however, JIM IS WELCOME.
How my dad sees:
Jim, I hope you like very loud Fox News, NASCAR, and every time a car goes by, my dad has to get up, look out the window, see who it is, and tell us “that was Mike, driving by” or whoever it was, because we TOTALLY CARE WHO JUST DROVE BY, DAD. I like to pick on him about that, by the way. If a car drives by and he forgets to get up and look at it I pretend to get very agitated and all, “I don’t know who that WAS, how will I SLEEP tonight” and he does NOT think that is at ALL funny. “You’re making fun of an old man, maybe THAT should affect how you sleep tonight,” he says. Then I’m supposed to say, “you’re not old!” and usually I do. USUALLY I DO. Because I love him and he is my totally off-the-wall father who has made me into the unruly-haired, crazy-eyed lunatic you are reading today.
So, Jim, won’t we have just the best time? Sorry, Ken and Andreas. If it makes you feel any better, even though you are, respectively, an assassin and a spy, you are ALWAYS welcome at my place for dinner. I don’t ever have any food and Dumbcat will hide from you in the pots and pans cupboard but YOU ARE WELCOME. I’ll pull the drapes so your mortal enemies don’t find you. Probably they won’t even suspect you’re in the ghetto where I live, anyway. Why would international superspies and assassins be in a New York low-rent ghetto? WE WILL HAVE THE BEST DAMN TIME.