A father passing by his son's bedroom was
astonished to see the bed was nicely made and
everything was picked up. Then he saw an envelope
propped up prominently on the center of the bed. It
was addressed, "Dad".
With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope
and read the letter with trembling hands:
Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm
writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend
because I wanted to avoid a scene with mom and you.
I've been finding real passion with Joan and she
is so nice-even with all her piercing, tattoos, and
her tight Motorcycle clothes. But it's not only the
passion dad, she's pregnant and Joan said that we
will be very happy.
Even though you don't care for her as she is so
much older than I, she already owns a trailer in the
woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole
winter. She wants to have many more children with me
and that's now one of my dreams too.
Joan taught me that marijuana doesn't really hurt
anyone and we'll be growing it for us and trading it
with her friends for all the cocaine and ecstasy we
want. In the meantime, we'll pray that science will
find a cure for AIDS so Joan can get better; she
sure deserves it!!
Don't worry Dad, I'm 15 years old now and I know
how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure we'll
be back to visit so you can get to know your grandchildren.
Your son,
John
PS: Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at
the neighbor's house.
I just wanted to remind you that there are worse
things in life than my report card that's in my desk
center drawer. I love you! Call when it is safe for
me to come home.
Modern version of the Birds & Bees
Little boy goes to his father and asks "Daddy, how was I born?" The father answers: "Well, son, I guess one day you will need to find out anyway! Your Mom and I first got together in a chat room on Yahoo. Then I set up a date via e-mail with your Mom and we met at a cyber-cafe. We sneaked into a secluded room, where your mother agreed to a download from my hard drive. As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered that neither one of us had used a firewall, and since it was too late to hit the delete button, nine months later a blessed little Pop-Up appeared and said: You've Got Male!
Originally posted by mokkoI should have done that when I was still at home, my parents love to overreact.
A father passing by his son's bedroom was
astonished to see the bed was nicely made and
everything was picked up. Then he saw an envelope
propped up prominently on the center of the bed. It
was addressed, "Dad".
Originally posted by mokkoI've written one of those... except without the "PS"... or the part where he says he ran away with his girlfriend... or the "Dear Dad" part.
A father passing by his son's bedroom was
astonished to see the bed was nicely made and
everything was picked up. Then he saw an envelope
propped up prominently on the center of the bed. It
was addressed, "Dad".
With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope
and read the letter with trembling hands:
Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and s ...[text shortened]... y desk
center drawer. I love you! Call when it is safe for
me to come home.
Fork
by Jeffrey Harrison
Because on the first day of class you said, "In ten years most of you won’t be writing," barely hiding that you hoped it would be true;
because you told me over and over, in front of the class, that I was "hopeless," that I was wasting my time but more importantly yours, that I just didn’t get it; because you violently scratched out every other word, scrawled "Awk" and "Eek" in the margins as if you were some exotic bird, then highlighted your own remarks in pink; because you made us proofread the galleys of your how-I-became-a-famous-writer memoir; because you wanted disciples, and got them, and hated me for not becoming one; because you were beautiful and knew it, and used it, making wide come-fudge-me eyes at your readers from the jackets of your books; because when, at the end of the semester, you grudgingly had the class over for dinner at your over-decorated pseudo-Colonial full of photographs with you at the center, you served us take-out pizza on plastic plates but had us eat it with your good silver; and because a perverse inspiration rippled through me, I stole a fork, slipping it into the pocket of my jeans, then hummed with inward glee the rest of the evening to feel its sharp tines pressing against my thigh as we sat around you in your dark paneled study listening to you blather on about your latest prize. The fork was my prize. I practically sprinted back to my dorm room, where I examined it: a ridiculously ornate pattern, with vegetal swirls and the curvaceous initials of one of your ancestors, its flamboyance perfectly suited to your red-lipsticked and silk-scarved ostentation.
That summer, after graduation, I flew to Europe, stuffing the fork into one of the outer pouches of my backpack. On a Eurail pass I covered ground as only the young can, sleeping in youth hostels, train stations, even once in the Luxembourg Gardens. I’m sure you remember the snapshots you received anonymously, each featuring your fork at some celebrated European location: your fork held at arm’s length with the Eiffel Tower listing in the background; your fork in the meaty hand of a smiling Beefeater; your fork balanced on Keats’s grave in Rome or sprouting like an antenna from Brunelleschi’s dome; your fork dwarfing the Matterhorn. I mailed the photos one by one—if possible with the authenticating postmark of the city where I took them. It was my mission that summer.
That was half my life ago. But all these years I’ve kept the fork, through dozens of moves and changes—always in the same desk drawer among my pens and pencils, its sharp points spurring me on. It became a talisman whose tarnished aura had as much to do with me as you. You might even say your fork made me a writer. Not you, your fork. You are still the worst teacher I ever had. You should have been fired but instead got tenure. As for the fork, just yesterday my daughter asked me why I keep a fork in my desk drawer, and I realized I don’t need it any more. It has served its purpose. Therefore I am returning it to you with this letter.
Also: Mokko, your story sucked and was made more painful to read thanks to the annoying formatting. It's isn't 1980 we can manage more than 10 words a line.
Originally posted by XanthosNZfudge? 🙄
Fork
by Jeffrey Harrison
Because on the first day of class you said, "In ten years most of you won’t be writing," barely hiding that you hoped it would be true;
because you told me over and over, in front of the class, that I was "hopeless," that I was wasting my time but more importantly yours, that I just didn’t get it; because you violently scratch ...[text shortened]... s to the annoying formatting. It's isn't 1980 we can manage more than 10 words a line.
Originally posted by mokkoWhen did you change your name to Joan?
A father passing by his son's bedroom was
astonished to see the bed was nicely made and
everything was picked up. Then he saw an envelope
propped up prominently on the center of the bed. It
was addressed, "Dad".
With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope
and read the letter with trembling hands:
Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and s ...[text shortened]... y desk
center drawer. I love you! Call when it is safe for
me to come home.