The aftermath of Pop-pops being very quiet, burning up, and spreading over the Pacific bore a benefit; I was elected to call my godfather, Doug, and tell him the news.
[waves tiny flag] yay. badnews bearer.
So. Got on the phone, called Doug, put forth the news. As Ma predicted, he did not break down on the phone, as he is fairly tightly wound. And, as she predicted, we had a blast on the phone. We talked for about 40 minutes. I learned that these days he has given up working his ranch, and has found gainful employment as a test-pilot for Barcalounger. He holds a second job field testing for Coors. Learning of my recent marriage, he warned me against redheads, claiming them to be dangerous in the extreme, something that his father had warned him of. Having married two of them (and kept the second) he can attest to the accuracy of his father’s words.
I also learned that, for nearly two decades, he had his wife and three kids believing that he had named his eldest daughter, Joy, after a black transvestite he once knew in New Orleans. I wonder if it’s too late to convince Cinderella … nah. Been done.
He says that he was told, about 4 1/2 years ago, that he has about two to eight weeks to live. He claims that he immediately changed brands of beer, and that, along with his poor aptitude for math, seems to have kept him going.
I strongly approve of my godfather.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry