Your Saturday Jack
The sweetest gesture at the end of the chips
Bit of a rough start today, so I decided to eschew Old School/New York/Owl Head Bagels and our usual egg on a toasted croissant/salt bagel with a side of mustard breakfast feast and just head over to my father’s. He had called earlier this morning, clearly troubled. For reasons not entirely clear he had pulled out the Hebrew Home phone directory, at which point, dementia, being the nasty fucker that it is, took over.
Harkening back to his accounting days, he insisted he had to do the tax returns of all those people in the book, and looking at their assets (actually their phone numbers, addresses, ages, etc.) and all the work ahead of him put him in something of a panic — not, in his defense, that doing the tax returns of 300 elderly and retired Jews wouldn’t put anyone in a panic. I then introduced our old friend Clonazapem to the proceedings and things calmed down considerably. (The Clonazapem is prescribed for such occasions. I don’t want you to think I’m drugging my father. I mean, sure, it sounds like a good idea.)
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