My Old Man Believes I Am Plotting His Demise

The Menendez brothers on trial for their crimes...against fashion! Oh no he di'int!

I am honestly starting to think that my dad believes I am trying to kill him, or at the very least, that I am currently in the planning stages of seeing him deceased. Let me state outright at the beginning of this post that I am indeed not planning on murdering my father for his vast fortune that 40 years at Union Pacific RR has provided him. It is true, however, that my father has been the bane of my existence for nigh on 26 years. He is the obnoxious thorn in my side. The chubby fly in my ointment. If you have never had the honor of meeting my old man, I can tell you he is...boisterous, to say the least. To say the most, he's a real fucking asshole. He is loud. He is arrogant. He is cheap. He is perverted. And ladies, he's single! My old man is thrice divorced, the proud parent of five children (three daughters [one's a slut, one's a bitch, one's a drama queen. I'll let them fight over who gets to be who] and two sons [my brother and I are quite different. He got all the brawn and I got all the brain...and most of the brawn]), and the happy grandfather of a young man and a little lady. My father is also a functioning alcoholic. By that I mean he can fail at three marriages, but still work at the same company for 40 years (that's where the functioning comes in). This is a man who my entire life has never been shy about smacking me, threatening me, lying to me, mocking me, humiliating me...the number of times he had me pack my bags for Boys Town in Omaha is innumerable...This is a man who thinks Peter Jackson's King Kong is believable until the giant insects attack, then it gets far-fetched (side note: by the time the insects attack, the audience has already seen King Kong fight three T-Rexes). For the better part of my life he has been my adversary, my nemesis, the Moriarty to my Holmes, the Batman to my Joker, the Alive to my Brittany Murphy (too soon?). But, to be fair, I was no angel (angle?) myself. Our life together wasn't a Flowers in the Attic situation, where I was a sweet and lovable child, only to be assailed by a malevolent parent. You guys remember that movie? Kristy Swanson totally wanted to do her brother in it...it was just a weird 80s movie. Anyway, I definitely played my part in our battles. As a baby my mother refused to allow my dad into my room when I cried at night, for fear it would result in Shaken Baby Syndrome (true). I insisted, insisted, on sleeping with no less than five pacifiers (true). I ran away from babysitters. Convinced myself that all my socks, shoes, blankets, sheets, sleeping bag, covers, etc. had uncomfortable "lumps" in them that disallowed sleep (true). My nefarious behavior not only turned my old man into a raging lunatic, it also rubbed off on others, as I have had my grandpa bust a spatula across my ass, my grandma scream at me to "Shut up!", and an Uncle (he knows who he is) seriously consider smothering me in my sleep in a poetic Hamlet sort of way. What I am trying to say is, I guess I gave as much as I got. But now, it seems, the tables have turned. For I have become a spry 25-year-old, while the old man has withered into an ol...an old man...I guess (or expanded into an old man). Yet, though I am no longer under my father's iron-fisted (wow, I used fisted in a non-sexual way! Progress!) rule, I am not completely financially independent. I humbly admit that I still rely on the old man to help with certain monetary things (back-ally abortions mostly). And now, my financial pressures are starting to make him paranoid. As I said before, once he kicks the proverbial bucket, I stand to gain an incredible chunk of his UP savings, not to mention the incredible life insurance policy he took out. He walks with a certain twitch whenever I am around. Always looking over his shoulder, always sleeping with the door locked, keeping his 9mm safely tucked under his pillow with the safety off. He knows precisely how much his death would be worth to me, and the knowledge scares him. Patricide is a part of history, as many great leaders have fallen victim to ambitious sons. I'm not going to Google any because my pizza is almost ready in the oven, but, you know, I'm sure there are some names out there. And now my father believes that I have put into motion a series of grand machinations that will leave him in a permanent vegetative state, lying at the bottom of his basement stairs, the smell of cheap rum on his breath. "We're good, right, Eric?" is a question he frequently asks me. "I'm so broke. I have no money," he will randomly point out during the day. "You know, Eric, a cop lives right across the street," he says cautiously. Chickens, dear father, have come home to roost. Or so you believe. For I still maintain that I am just a loyal son with some cliche daddy issues, that IN NO WAY WANTS TO KILL HIS FATHER. Even though life would be good without these student loans and credit card payments. But are they worth the life of a father? No! Well, the reward points on my Am Ex could get me a trip to Hawaii if I pay it off in less than a year, and Steph has always wanted to-NO! I mean, NO! Of course my dad is more important to me than money. Of course he is. So, rest well, dear father, and relegate all perilous thought into the void of dreams, for your son loves you and only wishes you a long and healthy life. But not too long. Steph wants a ring.

The Moore You Know: Three months ago I went down to St. Louis for a Jimmy Buffett concert and I actually saw two black people there! I couldn't believe it! Black people like Jimmy Buffett? Then I realized they probably thought they were going to a buffet.

© Eric Moore - 2010