Wherein I mutter profanities for the sake of the truth.
But before the profanities, let’s twist it the other way, just for a sec, to a positively cuteness factor of, like, 100 gamillion.
Setting the scene: Today it rained again – no surprise to me or my door that desperately wants the 3rd coat of orange (yes, you read that right, ORANGE) paint. At the exact moment that Kenny and I needed to leave to pick up the girls from school, the clouds proceeded to pitch cats and dogs and all matter of wetness towards the earth in an unsportsmanship-like manner. Knowing there was no way to avoid getting pounded by the flush of heaven, I said, “Okay Kenny, let’s hope this goes well!” and we ran (at a snail’s pace, because he’s 3 and has concrete blocks attached to his legs) to the truck.
By the time I got him buckled into his car seat my backside looked like I had been spat upon by an unmerciful god. So, I sat down in my own seat, buckled the seat belt and then had one of those moments where you wonder ‘WHY ME?’ and might could even cry, except you don’t. Yea, you know what I mean. And in that moment Kenny said VERY CLEARLY, “That went really well.” Except of course it sounds like “Dat wend weellie well.” But I heard it – and he said it – and wow, do 3 year olds REALLY talk like that? I didn’t think so. You’re right – he’s pure genius.
So, with that soul glow in your heart, I’ll skip forward to the profanities you’ve been waiting for – yes, you have. No, really … be honest with yourself – you WANT me to be inappropriate. Anyway, here’s the story (and my father will have to correct whatever portions are incorrect, except he has no access to my blog, so … oh. well.).
When I was a bit older than Kenny I had quite my own words of wisdom to vocalize. Picture a little girl in her Sunday dress, stripping off the itchiest stockings known to girlkind so she could walk barefoot into the Kentucky Fried Chicken with her daddy to grab up Sunday lunch. See, at that point in my life (and even now) barefootedness was HEAVEN; pure delight. Then, however, I did not concern myself with all the diseases that were apt to get stuck to my feet, and somehow kill me, so I tried desperately to be barefoot at any given moment – especially after my little peekers had been stuck inside a sock that went all the way up to my crotch and waist. THAT. IS. STILL. MISERY.
But I digress. So, here we are at Kentucky Fried Chicken and we’re looking up at the glowing menu together – father/daughter … beautiful moment. The lady at the counter was, of course, IN THAT MOMENT daydreaming of marriage and children b/c y’know, we were so idyllic across the counter there. And then, I spoke.
“You know what my daddy likes more than A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G in the whole, WIDE, WOOOOORLD?”
Counter lady already bearing 13 children just like me in her mind says with a smile:
“No honey, what does your daddy like more than anything in the whole, wide, world?”
With absolute daughterly pride and reverance for the man I called Daddy! I said:
“Ken-F*CKY fried chicken, ‘cuz its FINGER LICKIN’ GOOD.”
You read it here internet.
It doesn’t help that my father’s name is Ken
Counter lady – now envisioning sterilization and a life as a bachelorette, partying it up in Cancun says:
“I bet he does honey – I bet he does.”
That’s why you have children folks; because you can’t embarrass yourself enough on your own.
Oh, and “Hi Dad!”