My dad has always been a bullshitter. Actually, we come from a long line of bullshitters, but that is neither here nor there. When I was little, my dad used to screw with the three of us kids. He would open the front door and the conversation would go something like this:
Dad: Hey Laura! The pink elephants are marching down the street again!
Me: I come running to the front door WHERE? WHERE ARE THEY?
Dad: AHHHH, you just missed them.
Me: sad face Ahhhh. Why do I always miss them?
I think I believed that load of crap until I was
15 8 or so. Another time, he was a Sports Chalet with my 15 year old brother, when he came across a unicycle. The salesman came over and asked if my they needed any help with anything. “No, no,” my father said, “I was just reminiscing about my time with Ringling Bros. Circus, when I was a unicycle rider. Intrigued, the salesman asked my dad a multitude of questions about his employment with the circus. My dad obliged all the questions, straight-faced, ending with something to the effect of, “Yeah, it was good times, but the wife could not handle all the traveling around, so I had to find another job.” On the way out of the store, my brother said, “DAD! How come I never knew about your time in the circus?”
See what I mean? The bullshit. It runs deep in this family. It has also been passed onto the next generation.
A few weeks ago, Allie was staying with my parents, when my dad began telling Allie about the plethora of animals we had growing up. “Did you know your mommy used to have horses?” True story. We had horses, ponies, pigs, cows, goats, chickens, turkeys, dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs. Perhaps, never all of them at the same time. Unimpressed by Pop’s stories, he upped the ante by saying, “THEN, your mommy got a camel.” “YEAH!?” Allie said, as her face lit up. “Yeah,” he said. “Then, what did she name it?” she quarried. “She called it Mammal. Mammal the camel.” He continued on the charade for some time longer, answering details of the imaginary camel I never met. She seemed satisfied with this and moved on.
Later in the week, Mr. Bear and I had attended an event, in which one of the attendees was wearing pants in the most painful of ways. They were riding up the crotch and they looked anything but comfortable. It seriously appeared that it could be doing damage to her, you know, her lady parts. I could not stop looking. Should I say something? Clearly, this woman could use an intervention.
When we returned home, Mr. Bear and I were discussing the level 10 camel toe we witnessed. “How could anyone think that is okay? I DO NOT want to see your camel walking around! For the love of God, don’t hurt the thing!” I said, just as Allie walked into the room. She blurted out, “WHO has a camel in their backyard?” No, Sweetie, the camel is in the front yard.
Recreated by Mr. Bear with our neck pillow on the plane. Yes, we are classy folk.