by Ernie Palmer on Sunday, June 21, 2009 at 6:32pm
I have decided to join the ranks of victimhood and blame all faults and failures on others, my past, and, in keeping with current mode, my father.
The easiest way to explain myself is to describe some of the circumstances of our lives. My father loved the Great Depression. I remember him saying that it was a time when all those other people found out what it was like to be him.
Dad joined the army because the food was free, but declined to cooperate because, as he put it, “Those other guys had guns, too! A guy could get hurt!” And anyway, as he often pointed out, a discharge is a discharge.
I’m not very creative. I blame that on Dad. TV confused him. He could never understand why the Beverly Hillbillies left such a fine environment. Animation was beyond his comprehension. Recently I found copies of three fan letters he had written to Mighty Mouse.
A particularly painful memory was an incident in which a group of vicious Amish made fun of the way I dressed. My first heartbreak came about when our next door neighbors, Satan worshippers, could no longer stand it, and moved to Mississippi. Their daughter, Morlocha, was my first love, even though I suspected that she ate Fluffy.
Jehovah Witnesses and Latter Day Saints refused to share the good news with us. I almost lost an eye after being hit by an accurately thrown Book of Mormon. I still fear young men wearing black pants, short sleeved white shirts, and black ties.
At one point we had Dad sent away, but he was soon back. It seems that he was constantly causing problems by acting weird and causing disturbances at the mental institution.
My Old Man. I sure miss him. But I know how proud he is of his granddaughter, Bissy. Now, I have to assume some responsibility.
