You want your money back, Dad?
That’s funny, cuz I’m the one getting short-changed here…
“Karma is a biscuit–“
Wait. That doesn’t sound quite right…
Oh, yeah, that’s right…what the proverbial “they” say is actually ‘karma is a b*tch’, but for some reason we don’t use that ‘b’ word in these parts of the internets…I guess you get the lame ‘biscuit’ instead when one indecisively attempts to be politically correct and/or non-misogynistic, yet still wants to spit out certain quotes that reference colloquialisms involving female dogs.
Anywho…so y’all know what I mean when I say ‘karma is a biscuit,’ then, right?
Well, if you’re wondering why I bring up the concept of karma–or as we white appropriatin’ folk say, “what goes around comes around”–may I turn your attention to Exhibit B: aka last week’s tale about my first vehicle, Peppermint Paddy.
Seriously, if you haven’t read it yet, take a few moments to go back and enjoy it. Otherwise the rest of this won’t make as much sense. Ya really gotta get the full context to appreciate it, ya know?
…
…
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So…you read it, right? Sure…sure you did.
Just in case you maybe didn’t, the brief summary is that my wonderful father gave me a gently used farm truck for my first vehicle in high school. When the starter went out and when, many weeks later, he decided to get around to fixing it, what appeared to be yet another act of parental altruism just turned out to be a ruse to get free labor out of me and my friends. And then he appropriated my truck for his own purposes. Yup…that sounds about white–er, I mean ‘right’.
But even if you didn’t read all of the story, at least you read the punchline at the end right, so I don’t have to remind you how it all ended.
Yes, yes, you already knew that the final zinger was “Why, that son of a biscuit…”
So now that you’re all caught up, you surely understand that I couldn’t help but go full-on schadenfreude when that very same starter we replaced in last week’s episode lasted him…wait for it…a whole whopping 2-and-a-quarter days before going kaput.
Not being one to tolerate any crappy craftsmanship unless it was his own, Dad promptly pulled the busted starter out (well, he made me pull it out, actually) and marched right on down to the local Co-op–which, in no relevance to this story but should be noted anyways, was managed by the dad of none other than my buddy from the original Peppermint Paddy fiasco, Phillip K. Ballz–and demanded an exchange for the defective part they had sold him.
Now, PKB’s dad, being an honest businessman (unlike some other dads in this story *ahem*), obliged and promptly replaced the now-completely-ruined starter with a brand new one, a $79 value (that’s $143.87 in 2022 dollars, you know).
And though it was April by this point in time, it quickly started to feel much more like Groundhog Day. Not the holiday itself, but the 1993 Bill Murray sci-fi comedy about living the same ----- day over and over.
After that second starter suffered the same suspicious fate as the first, Dad marched once again back down to the Co-op and gave them an earful about selling such cheap parts…then promptly asked for another exchange, because, well, we got to keep the family business in business, and fixing his own ----- truck still wasn’t an option.
“What are the odds?!? Either that whole dang factory is just pumping out worthless starters, or–more likely–they’re intentionally sending all their rejects to me!” Dad said after demanding an exchange for the fifth starter that somehow had mysteriously broke within two uses.
The whole time I was shaking my head and laughing at the same time. Like, how was Dad failing to grasp Occam’s Razor: “The simplest explanation is most often the right one”? No, instead the man was literally coming up with highly, highly improbable conspiracy theories instead of facing the cold hard truth that was staring him in the face.
Like, Dude, maybe–just maybe–it’s not the five–no, now six–starters that are what’s broken. Perhaps you should take Peppermint Paddy back to the wheat field where you found her and ask it for a refund.
The funny thing is you’d actually get that refund, because, ya know, you spent a whopping $0 on it.
Anyways, the whole literal and metaphorical situation couldn’t help but make me think of a particular “inspirational” poster I once saw at a Hot Topic in the mall.
Dad, this very special Father’s Day point of the story goes out to you (RIP, Papa Bob):
And you know what? In the end I find that I love you all the more for all that rascally dysfunction you breathed into my life.
Why? Because you taught me that when it comes to being a father, there is nothing more important than being “a man, a character.”
*checks notes*
Oh, wait. Oh, fork me. That was supposed to be “a man of character.”
Son of a biscuit…
Speaking of which, Happy Father’s Day to all you dirty sons of biscuits out there!
Go ahead–sit back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of the fruits of your loin’s labor!
Content created on: 10/11/17 June (Fri/Sat/Fri)
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