Go Ask Daddy About the Better Bobcats, Self-Generated Nicknames and Lunar Fly-bys

photo credit: JD Hancock via photopin cc

I’ve been in desperate need of some funny.

Like, withdrawal symptoms. Life is good right now. I’m back on the Couch to 5K, working out twice at the gym. I might have even gotten this Coke Zero addiction licked (if you own the stock KO, you might want to sell, sell, sell).

And I got this little notice that someone liked one of my posts.

I was ready today to take a rip at the produce industry for pesticides.

5 For Friday: Dudes Who’ve Moved In On My Turf

 

photo credit: slamto DSC_0761_DxO via photopin (license)

Every dad must return to the mortal status at some sad point in his life.

My dad’s moment came the day he gritted out an F-bomb while driving a nail – and taking his thumb along for the ride – when I was a kid. I’d never heard anyone outside the playground say what I thought was the worst bad word ever.

I’ve reverted to mortal status with each of my girls, although I can’t pinpoint the exact time or date.

They know now I can’t lift a house. They know now I can’t wrestle an alligator. They know now I don’t know everything about everything. I can’t slam dunk. Or hit a grand slam. Or punt the ball to the moon.