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!)

My dad may be an expatriate from Vietnam and all, but in many ways he’s vehemently Midwestern: he loves Budweiser, barbecue, guns, and Christmas music. The morning following Thanksgiving I stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and wanting breakfast, to be greeted with the strains of “music” blaring from the radio: B-98 FM, the station that plays “all Christmas, all the time” (as opposed to the other stations in Wichita, which are only Christmas 95% of the time). Lest one forget what season it is - and it has been easy to forget as of late, what with the fact that it was 70 degrees outside on Turkey-Gorging Day in Kansas - cheery, slightly off-key voices will remind you: “Giddy up, jingle horse, pick up your feet!” AHHH. I guess I should thank my stars that I’ve only heard that dreadful “Siiiimply haaaving a wonderful Christmas time!” song once in a store, discounting the times my roommate has played that specifically to infuriate me. Ugh.

Now I am a known grinchy grump and all, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not really Christmas itself that bugs me. Sure, it’s unabashedly capitalist and it seems as though people spend more and more each year, clobbering and crushing more of their fellow citizens in a rush to get that new Bratz doll or Tickle Me Elmo (seriously, what? I thought that trend was over and done with three years ago! It’s not even old enough to be retro kitsch!). But the exchange of gifts, and even the reunion of family…well, more so the gifts, makes the whole thing totally worth it.

Well, almost. There is still the matter of that horrid forced cheerfulness of all that Christmas music that is ubiquitous these days, should one be hapless enough to have to shop for gifts in store instead of online, or otherwise have to venture outside of the confines of their cold-yet-blissfully-Christmas-music-free abode. With the advances of YouTube and the Internets, I have compiled a list of songs that I would sooner listen to than one more iteration of “Jingle Rock” (GIDDY UP, JINGLE HORSE. Really, I know that line bothers me more than it should, but it’s just…augh.).

This is a hit song by the infamous Jan Terri, a limo driver from Chicago who made it ‘big’ on the music scene a few years back. Though she has a face for radio and a voice for telegraph, you’ve got to admit, this song is pretty catchy. And better yet, it’s a Halloween song, for a holiday that gets almost no musical recognition. Get down goblin! Yeah.

The musical accompaniment to this surreal Beavis-and-Butthead-esque animation is provided by The Shaggs, who demonstrate what can happen when you try to make rock music out of prophecy. They can’t play their instruments and the vocalist covers a wide range of keys throughout the duration of the “song,” but guess what? Still better than “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time!” For shame, Sir Paul.

Middle schoolers’ take on Nirvana. Possibly the worst cover in the whole world. So hardcore.

Finally, a sound that adequately summarizes how I feel midway between Thanksgiving and Christmas every year.

So there’s my buffer against the evils of Mannheim Steamroller and co.; whenever I walk into a retail environment from now on, I will retreat into my happy place of howling cats and angsty suburban middle schoolers. And my heart rate shall benefit. Ho ho ho.