Holy shit. He's really not making this stuff up.

So let me tell you about the husband of the Amazing Disgruntled Dwarf Woman, whom I have grown to call "Mom".

I mean, I call the dwarf woman Mom. Not her husband. Cuz her husband isn't my mom, my mom is my mom, but she's a disgruntled dwarf woman, so I was saying I call the disgruntled dwarf woman Mom. But I'm not talking about Mom, I'm talking about her husband. So not Mom. I just mentioned Mom. Okay. So back to my story.

I'm going to tell you about my dad.

My dad was born in 1929 in a town of about 3,000 in Tennessee, right before the depression. So my dad wasn't raised with all the modern conveniences. And it shows on a daily basis, such as when he mistakes the tool shed for an outhouse and pees on all of our stored Christmas stuff. Or when he thinks there are demons in the television set so he kicks the screen in and we have to buy a new set every week or so.

Okay, so I'm kidding about all that. But he really is old fashioned and doesn't care much for modern technology, such as computers, or say, even, electricity. And he doesn't feign well when he tries to deal with these modern doodads. Many are the times he has called me to his room from the other end of the house, with a tone in his voice as if he needed help because a wall fell in on him. So I would rush into his room to find my poor dad... who needs so much help because... because... he's sitting at the radio...?

"Hey feller, come punch the play button on here for me."

But the worst? The worst is when I come home from work every day. Because even though I live 400 miles away from home, I still hear my dad's distant cry for technological help every time I pick up the phone to check for my messages.

"You have 547 new messages."

So I get excited, thinking I'm a popular guy. But as it always turns out, one of them is for my roommate, one is a telemarketing call for a Norwegian Butt Massager, and the other 545 are all my dad, calling every five minutes to see if I've gotten home yet, and waiting until after the answering machine beeps to hang up the phone.

But don't get me wrong, I love my Dad to death. And I'd rather come home to 500 messages that say "Click" than one message from Mom that says, "BJ ART BELL SAID THE ALIENS ARE COMING AND THERE WAS A SCIENTIST ON HIS SHOW THAT AGREED! A SCIENTIST! IT MUST BE TRUE! SO I'M SENDING YOU A MACHETE AND A GUN, USE THEM IF YOU HAVE TO AIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."