RaisingDad

T he obdurate oaf embarked on an oleaginous odyssey ostentatiously wearing his orgulous expression like a hat he forgot was upside down.     “Potatoes make fries, chips, and vodka. It’s like the other vegetables aren’t even trying.”--anonymous    song recommendation: Mashed Potato Time by Dee Dee Sharp    Spud-Tacular!    My father’s a potato-loving guy. I don't mean that in a love-that-dares-not-speaks-its-name kind of way. He just loves potatoes. To eat them, if I still haven't made my point clear. In fact, my father likes potatoes so much you would think he was Irish. However, unlike the Irish, he does eat other foods. He just likes potatoes. A lot.       Since I brought the Irish's eating preferences up, I've always wondered (and maybe one of you can tell me) how did the great Irish Potato Famine end up killing so many Irish men and women? I mean, was potatoes ALL they ate in Ireland? Didn't they have any other...

My father's best friend recently left us for that great boneyard in the sky.  After a short period, he told us he wanted to adopt a new one.    Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!          I campaigned against it, but found I was outvoted when the mail-in ballots were counted. I didn't want to accuse anyone of anything, but it looked suspiciously like election fraud to me.  Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark...

My wife has been sick and in bed for the last few days. She thought she'd do the smart thing by getting her flu shot early and, sure enough, she got the flu. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against inoculating yourself against the various bugs and viruses that will save the Earth when space aliens come to conquer our planet. In fact, every year I get the flu shot, too.  My wife makes sure I do. "I don't get sick," I tell her. "But what if you do?" she'll tell me. "I've never had the flu in my life." "What does that have to do with anything?" And she's right.  I've never had the flu in my life, true, but maybe the shots had something to do with that. I've never had polio, either. Or whooping cough, or any number of childhood diseases, and I can thank my parents for making sure I got my childhood vaccinations.  The generation before mine wasn't so fortunate.  Ask FDR. I'll eventually give my wife credit, but ...

  The desert stretched endlessly before Thomas Jerome Newton. A cracked and desolate expanse that mirrored the fate of his home planet, Anthea. He stood atop a dune. His thin frame cloaked in a tailored suit that seemed out of place against the barren landscape. His eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses, scanned the horizon. Not Earth’s, but a simulation he’d built in a Nevada warehouse. It was a desperate attempt to feel something of home. A planet dying of drought. Its inhabitants reduced to dust and memory. Newton had come to Earth decades ago with a mission. Amass wealth. Develop technology. Save Anthea by bringing water back. He’d succeeded in part. His patents had made him richer than King Solomon, but the planet’s bureaucracies, wars, and petty squabbles had delayed him. Now, time was running out. Anthea’s last transmissions had ceased months ago. He feared he was too late. But there was one man who might understand his vision. One man who dreamed as big as he did. One man who...