Operation Bob

by Chris Garlington, bloggist and prisoner at Death by Children, who works at home and—allegedly— raises two highly intelligent (read: devious) children.

Every day I drive to St. Mary of the Woods to retrieve your future president and/or street preacher, my son, Roon, and every day he hits me with a question I am bound by oath to answer.

I say bound by oath because I swore at the outset that my children would get absolute clarity from me, that no matter how embarrassing their questions, they I would answer them to my fullest ability.

Although I remain proud of my stance on clarity, it may not have worked out so well for my kids, who may be permanently damaged not from asking the following questions, but because I answered them:

•   Dad, what’s an orgy?
•   Dad, what’s an orgasm?
•   Dad, what’s masturbation? How do you know?
•   Dad, what’s a tampon?

Of course, he also asks questions for which there are no answers:

• Ever wonder why farts smell, like, out?

Since he’s a smart kid he often asks some pretty smart questions, the kind of thing that makes you sit up a little straighter, the kind of thing that makes you proud, elbow the guy next to you and say ‘That’s my boy!’; something like this: Dad, where did the bird come from?

I am actually surprised he asked me this, because it means he couldn’t find it on Google and I can say anything I want and he’ll believe me as long as I use my “scholar voice” Jedi mind trick.

It was invented, I say, by Republicans.

Of course, I explain the whole history of the bird because, like our future president and or street preacher, I am a man driven by useless curiosity and I had asked the same question a long time ago, pre-Google (PG) and learned the sickening and horrific answer to that question.

The raised middle finger gesture is a simple way of saying “here’s some poop for you” to someone because a bazillion years ago, before toilet paper, people, ahem, cleansed themselves, end-ahem, with their bare hand, specifically, the middle finger. So by holding it up, you are proposing to them direct intimate contact with your posterior.

While I’m explaining this, I’m naturally lost in the colorful oration I employ, oblivious to the fact that it is a bright Chicago winter day–meaning it’s 3 degrees and searingly luminous–and I’m wearing my special winter gloves, the orange ones that were less than a dollar at Dick’s sporting goods, which I bought cause I can’t possibly lose them because they’re BRIGHT ORANGE SO YOU CAN SEE THEM FOUR HUNDRED YARDS OFF and I’m giving the bird. In traffic. In Chicago.

More importantly, I’m obsessively, though inadvertently, flipping people off with these Day-Glo gloves, my ten year old son enthusiastically joining in, LESS THAN A BLOCK FROM OUR CHURCH AND HIS SCHOOL!

I pause in my scholarship to take a breath, look up, and see his math teacher stopped at the same red light as we are, her mouth agape, her eyes full of indignant fury. The look on her face was priceless. I can tell you, I’m really, really looking forward to our next parent teacher conference.

I looked like I was conducting the William Tell Overture for road rage. My son took a picture:

Bob’s Note: Thanks to Chris from Death by Children for this great guest-post!