The Old Codger on Father’s Day

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Well, you might remember when we were talking about Mother’s Day, I said I hoped the wife and daughter would remember to give me the royal treatment on Father’s Day.

Did they?

Well, I’ll tell you.

First, Mrs. Old Codger made me some breakfast.

There was toast made the way she always makes it:  burnt!

Then there was porridge, again made the usual way:  lumpy!

Since it was a special day, she made two types of coffee:  too hot and too cold!

After that, she left me alone for an hour or so. So I got out some of my old records, scratches and all, and spent a little time listening to some of the melodious warblings of Engelbert Humperdinck and Slim Whitman. Now that’s music! Not like the junk that’s out today!

After that, I had a good talk with my wife. Then my daughter came over, and I talked with her as well.

What did we talk about? Well, mainly I was complaining about a few things, including the weather, politics, sports, the periodic tables of elements, radio stations, kids who walk on my lawn, driver’s licenses, joggers, barber shops, everyone who won a Grammy who wasn’t Engelbert Humperdinck, and plenty more besides.

I think the wife and daughter might have said a few things, too, but I can’t remember what. I remember their lips were moving anyways.

So let me summarize my Father’s Day: 

Breakfast with burnt toast, listening to Engelbert Humperdinck, and a few hours complaining.

In short:  a perfect day!


The Old Codger requests a moratorium on fan mail so he doesn’t have to waste precious time and energy reading it.