"NNNIIIIIICCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!"



I've heard this before. I've heard this about ninety times today. I'm too the point now that I feel like I'm like a mental patient. I rock back in forth in a recliner, wide-eyes glazed over, sweating, sputtering out jumbled up nonsense something like this:



" Dad, he's my dad… I love my dad… His knees are replaced…. He should be replaced…. He should be replaced permanently…. Permanent markers are fun to smell….My dad smells… I hear my name… Is he yelling my name… Nick… Nick… Kill.. Kill.."



Extreme. I know. 



My dad got his knees replaced what seems like years ago. In reality, it was about a month ago. His knees were comparable to Barry Bonds' knees (bone on bone, if you laughed, you are a pervert), only my Dad isn't on the juice, isn't belting 450 foot homeruns, and he isn't making millions. He is, however, on Orange juice, belts out farts that can be heard 450 feet away, and makes a million requests a day. If there are any transgressions, he goes off like Bonds goes off on a San Francisco Chronicle reporter.  



To top it all off, he does all of this completely naked. I hope you aren't eating or are hungry. If so, I apologize. It's sorta like watching a beached whale struggle to stay alive…and talk. I'll admit, I have no idea what that would look like, but I think it's a fair comparison. Beached whales are probably a little more understanding, given their plight. I'll have to do some research on this one.



Here's a quick run through on what happens on the daily:



7 AM – I'm sound asleep when my cell phone rings. Big Daddy is on the other line and he wants cereal pronto. I'm pissed because my dream involving two beautiful young ladies fades away into the newly sunlit sky searing through my blinds. I get up, tuck my half boner in the top of my boxers, and throw on my "Fuck Kansas" shirt. Stumbling through the living room like I partied the night before with Charlie Sheen and his legion of hookers, I finally make it to the kitchen. The sound of Frosted Flakes colliding with a glass bowl radiates through my skull and makes me want to kill something. With blurred vision, I cautiously open his bedroom door, only to be greeted with his bare ass staring me in the face. Come on in, he says… With pleasure… Problem being, my motor skills have temporarily been paralyzed due to fear, shock, or anxiety. I don't know which one.  I dizzily question God's reasoning for putting me on this Earth and meander back to bed.



9 AM – Cell Phone rings. Big Daddy wants a milkshake. A FRIGGIN MILKSHAKE AT 9 AM!!! Are you kidding me? Milkshakes are only good if they are made with the best of ingredients, sort of like loogies. Yeah, I did it. And I'm gonna keep doing it until he figures out what makes those tasty milkshakes so creamy. Then, I'll probably be running for my life from a man who can't walk. I'm a hardass.



12 PM – I'm at "school" during this time, alas, I usually have two or three missed calls from the ole' man. He usually either wants flounder from Long John Silvers or a footlong coney from Sonic. Today, was the flounder. Now don't get me wrong, I like Long John Silvers but everytime I eat it, I think that's it's more than possible that it might slowly be killing me. When I was handed the flounder, I thought they handed me a rotting hamster it smelt so bad. Seriously, I thought it was a joke. I can't imagine working there. Cole miners suffered from the black lung; I'm telling ya, in ten to twenty years there will be a widespread epidemic involving past Long John Silver's employees. I'm trying to come up with something clever for the name, but I got nothing. Maybe, "Flounder's Revenge" or "The Flounder Flu". Rereading this paragraph tells me I got off topic. My dad really likes the stinky, long-term deadly flounder.



3 PM – Milkshake. Loogie.



5 PM – Walking out the door to go to work, my dad calls me into his room. Good news. I get to watch him take a shower, to make sure he doesn't get hurt, when I get home from work. FANTASTIC NEWS.



9:30 PM – I get out of work and begin to think about what I'll be telling my therapist in twenty years after having to see my Dad take a shower and why it's affected my life so much.



10 PM – 10:30 PM – Shower. I'll spare the highlights. Oh yeah, if anyone sees my stomach let me know.



10:45 PM - Time for the nightly back scratch and leg rub-down with lotion. Keep in mind, he's still naked; so, when I rub his legs down, I'm dangerously close to, well, you know. As far as the backscratch goes, it reminds of when a bowling bowl is thrown on a waterbed and the ensuing ripple effect. It's easy to get lost in it and sometimes I think I have vertigo while doing it.



After everything was done, this exchange occured:



Dad: "You know son, if it wasn't for you, I don't know what I'd do. I know I'm a pain in the ass right now, but I really appreciate it."



Me: (sheepishly looking down wanting to bury my head in the sand) Yeah, I know, I know. (the selfishness is killing me)



Dad: "Now, time for a milkshake. By the way, what do you put in those that make them so good?"



My man Oscar Wilde will tell the moral of the story,

"Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live."

And don't drink my milkshakes.