Hey, have you ever asked for money from your own father? You have? And it was no problem?!? Well, good fucking goo goo la di dah for you. As for me, my father is:
Not that I'm implying anything, but he is the grossest, most malevolently hypocritical, simperingly mealymouthed machevillian mephistophiclean pederast the world has ever known.*
Having suffered some fiduciarial discomfiture in the last months, I thought of approaching the ol' popsicle for a loan. Not a GIFT, mind you. I was not asking for money, as in, "Gimme yer dough, old man, if y'know what's good for ya," with a James Cagney sneer kind of thing. No. I went up to his country estate to ask for a modest sum to help tide me over until the spring when the rebels came out of the hills and gold was again plentiful.
During our postprandials, as the servants were dismissed, Father sat back on his Byzantine throne (originally used by Basil II during the crusades against the Turks, crusted over with gems like really expensive barnacles), and plumply patted his pin-striped waistcoat with a imperially complacent air.
"Magnificent, Maria," says Dad, dabbing at his soft lips with a baby panda seal's face-napkin, "as always, my dear."
"So, Dad, anyway, I was wondering..."
"It's important to give to the poor," says Dad, sniffing at his chardonnay of petite de la poupon spritzer, "and I truly believe we need to tax the rich more. Indeed, I--"
"Don, I'm sponging down the stove for the seventieth time tonight!" screeches a Finnish woman from the kitchen.
"Excellent, my dear. In any event, as I was saying, I think that if the smallest, kindest action can be effectuated, then good things will radiate from there. Just as a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil will cause a fart to come out my mouth."
"That's great, Dad," I say. "So, anyway, on the subject of money, I was wondering if..."
"Your mother does not understand this, regrettably. Do you know what the definition of insanity is? Mm?"
"Uh, when something is wrong with your brain?"
"No! When you do the same thing over and over, and expect different results!" says Dad with a sharp clap on the oaken table once sodomized by Henry VIII. "HAR!"
(Repeated many times to me. Irony?)
"So," says Dad with a satisfied feline smirk, "as they said at Ford's Theater, how was the play, Mrs Lincoln?"
"Uh... right. Anyway, I need some money. A loan. A thousand, or two. Would be great. Yeah."
Dad jerked his head as if shot by a trinomial lunatic from Dixie. "I'm sorry? I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I've been having some problems with paying bills. And then I had to get the power steering fixed on my car, which was eight hundred, and then..."
Hand halted my babbling speech. "Listen to me, son, and I mean this in all seriousness, you need to get your financial house in order. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I do. And that's why I--"
"Coming to the Bank of Dad should be the last resort. Do you hear me? I love you, and I want to see you do well, but..." Here his lips simpered and savored the delicious bon mot that needed repeating. "Before you come to the Bank of Dad, you need to explore all your options first."
A bit stunned, I sat and pondered father's wise words. "So," I said, "does this mean I should go to Russian mobsters first before you? The Cosa Nostra...?"
"Mm?" says Dad, not hearing me and concentrating on the flavorful oak and chalk and steel wool notes of his vintage wine. "Errrgggghmmmm."
In the end, I went to a friend of a friend who ran a medical supply company for the Yazuka, and after pimping, running numbers, killing a guy and breaking my own thumbs for the interest, I got what I needed. Most importantly, there was not a run on
Whose touching motto is:
Fuck You, Son
So for all of you out there who are thinking of squeezing some cash out of my dad, you can forget it. Why? Because he is THE WORST HUMAN BEING EVER.
Love ya, Dad!!
* Acknowledgements to my mom who graciously helped write that paragraph. Love ya, Mom!