A Note From My Father

I awakened this morning to the raucous croaking of my alarm clock, a pounding Benadryl headache, and an email from my father. I present it to you, the public, unabridged and with the knowledge that my father would want his sage advice spread as widely as possible.

Should you happen to go to the delicatessen store today, please use extra caution when contemplating the purchase of the liverwurst. Do you have any idea how long it has been there? It will make your insides awful sore. Don't buy the liverwurst! Don't buy the liverwurst! Don't buy the liverwurst! I repeat what I just said before, don’t buy the liverwurst! Don't buy the liverwurst! Oh, buy the corned beef if you must, the pickled herring, you can trust, and the lox puts you on orbit AOK (AOK). But that big hunk of liverwurst has been there since October first, and today is the 23rd of May.

Dad

(I don't think I've ever even had liverwurst)

Unfortunately, I cannot in good conscience allow you to question the man's sanity based on this email. He is merely quoting Allan Sherman, the lyrical parodist who was Weird Al before Weird Al was Weird Al, if you get my drift. As you cannot fail to notice, his name was also Al, but he was a lot weirder than Weird Al. Perhaps he would be less weird if I understood any of his lyrics; though I am quite familiar with his work, I have rarely heard any of the songs that he parodies because...well, I'm too goddamned young. I do enjoy his take on the folk song, Molly Malone, and his version of Old Lang Syne is, in my opinion, far superior to the original. Still, I just don't know what the fuck he is talking about most of the time.

I laugh at his songs because my father laughed and continues to laugh and will laugh until we're all dead and buried. Until that certain day, every New Year's Eve I will sing:

I know a man, his name is Lang,
And he has a neon sign.
And Mister Lang is very old,
So they call it Old Lang's Sign.

And I will know that wherever else my family members are, they'll, at the very least, be thinking the same thing and then I will spit in disgust because I just don't know sometimes what the hell I am doing and why and who the hell cares anyway?