…but he don’t like swears. Just recently he publically reprimanded me on Facebook for filling a status update with the f-word (I was bemoaning my work being interrupted by an insultingly loud coffeeshop band–a sentiment he would share had he been there), adding how I should attend anger management classes.

For reals? See, it took precisely 3.7 seconds lurking his facebook page to find the above piece of incrimination–which was once very publically his facebook thumbnail, no less! Yes, that is the noggin of Saddam Hussein my father is resting his sandy L.L. Bean sole on. While the sentiment is funny and a safe one to hold, I will curb my enthusiam as I point out how, in Islamic culture, showing the bottom of one’s shoe is a tremendously filthy thing to do–it is the cultural equivolent of “flipping the bird,” only this gesture packs so much more oomph because you’re literally acquainting them with the dirtiest parts of your day. This convention is so alive and well, certain forms of leg-crossing are strictly no-no’d–a fact mentioned in the Islamic cultural guidebook my dad passed down to me. My father’s facebooked expression is exponentially more offensive than whatever textual virulence I spewed at the shitty band at Cafe Orwell.

I figure my dad and I should just agree that swearing is 1.) fun, 2.) therapeutic, 3.) and something he, I, and everybody else we know enjoy doing every single day. Anyway, what’s a hearty exchange of Fuckin’ A! between father and son but the sweet, swift sound of a hatchet being buried.


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