I’ve mentioned or made allusion to many of my mom’s various neuroses here on this blog, but I’m not sure I’ve given equal coverage to my father’s particular brand of insanity. Yes, as you say, everybody’s parents are insane, but I am going to argue that mine are probably even more insane, and I think I have solid evidence on my side. These are all true stories, and therefore connote a grim future for my own personal mental well-being, as I did receive 50% of his genetic material.

1) The Scarebug: I may have posted this before; the majority of my friends have heard this at some point or other. It remains one of the all-time favorite Dad tales. About three or four years ago, in the middle of a humid, bug-infested Kansas summer, I went home to visit my father. He was raking leaves or something in the little fenced-in front yard of his condo, and I stood outside chatting with him. In the center of the yard, there was a well-tended flower bed, with a cheap fancy lamppost sticking out of it that may have been obtained at my father’s favorite place to shop, Tuesday Morning (he almost bought a doormat from there, that he was going to give his neighbor as a wedding present. His logic? “I looked over at their house and I know they don’t already have a doormat.”).

At any rate, while inspecting the flowers, I noticed this huge beetle, about the size of a Pink Pearl eraser, hanging from the lamppost. It didn’t look to be alive, and I marvelled at its shining carapace and the fact that such a thin spider’s web could support such a monstrous weight. Upon closer examination, however, this beetle was not suspended from webbing, but a bit of sewing thread.

Me: “Hey, Dad? How did this bug get tied to the lamppost?”

Dad: “Oh, I hung it there as an example to the other bugs. The bugs see this guy is dead, and then they know not to come around here.”

Me: ! “Uh, well, does it work?”

Dad: “I think so.”

2) Merry Christmas: As documented back in November, my dad is a huge fan of commercialized, soulless Christmas music. Unlike me, he is not a grinch; he does, however, have rather unconventional views on the holiday icons. My sister and I got on the subject of the origins of Santa Claus, and she revealed a Dad tale from when she was little (she’s eight years older than me, so we experienced different stages of Dad insanity growing up).

Ever the skeptic, my sister professed that she started to doubt the whole Santa Claus thing when she was still rather young. The typical Hollywood Christmas movie would lead you to believe that adults, when pressed by precocious children about the existence of Santa, will fumble and blush and engage in hilarious hijinx, all for the purpose of shielding the younguns from the harshness of truth. Our dad, however, had a different reaction:

Sister: “Does Santa really exist?”

Dad: “Well, he used to exist, but then people stopped believing in him. So then Santa died.”

My sister says she believed him, despite her skepticism, because “why would Dad make up something that crazy?” Oh, ho ho, the naivete of youth.

3) Happy Hanukkah: I knit my dad a scarf this year, to match the hat I’d made him last year. He’d seemed disinterested in the hat, so I didn’t have high hopes that this present would go over well, but I figured it would keep him warm. To my surprise this year, my dad actually seemed pleased with a present I’d given him. He immediately put it around his neck and announced, in a proud booming Dadly voice, “Look at me! I am rabbi!” He proceeded to wear the scarf around the house until he went to sleep.

4) The Pork Treatment: My dad has interesting theories regarding dermatology and dietary health; theories that probably allow him to reconcile “eating healthy” with “all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.” Somehow.

5) Damn Kids Get Off My Lawn: I recollect that when I was a wee lass, my dad pulled a gun out on some teenage boys that knocked maliciously on our door. My sister and I were watching the TV, probably “Mamma’s Family” or whatever other vile programming that passed as entertainment before the days of cable and Internet, when my dad calmly strode into the bedroom and returned, gun in hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any two people shit their pants any faster while running. In my dad’s defense: we lived in a terrible neighborhood then. Not in my dad’s defense: the kids were probably no more than thirteen or fourteen.

There’s an endless supply of Dad tales, but these will have to do for now. (Chiaroscuro, feel free to chip in with any really entertaining ones that I have missed!)