As a parent mom may have been an excellent hairdresser, but she still beats dad bloody- even a failed attempt at that daunting task accrues more respect than headlong, lifelong flight.
So mom got a Mother's Day post that took some soul searching while dad gets two pictures and a question punctuated by a fat middle finger.
First picture, from my baby book, retrieved from the garage after mom died:
An earlier entry notes dad skipped out two days before my fourth birthday.
Ten or so years back I tracked him down on Google & sent a letter which resulted in a highly unsatisfactory reply. There has been no contact since.
The second picture is of Fuss, a few days ago at four years old.
And the (rhetorical) question:
What kind of person reads this blog (yes, he's read it- anyone downplaying the utility of "metadata" consider the vistas revealed by combining a Google analytics traffic report with a search engine savvy friend), sees that child, their grandson, and remains silent.
So, on this day of universal celebration, with everyone shouting their paternal adoration from the rooftops, allow me to launch a stream of contemptuous piss into that brimming punchbowl of bonhomie:
Fuck you, dad, you gutless worm.
You failed at the most important job you ever had and never stopped fleeing from the aftermath, too cowardly to stop and face the disaster your negligence helped create.
Every year Fuss gets the greatest birthday present in the world- I'm not you.