Father’s Day Sentimentality and maybe a reference to the Death Star thrown in



People often think me a braggart. Either that or the son of some superhuman Baron Münchhausen or comic book hero. Or both. It’s your fault.

When I was younger, I would often boast that my dad went to the Nobel ceremonies and that he liked the fish but wasn’t impressed by the weather.

To the envy of my classmates, I’d say that you were to only a doctor, but ALSO a scientist and that you could compress an hourlong episode of House MD to a mere 30 seconds with his diagnosing abilities.

Or that you used to walk vast marathons to school in the snow (since you’re so humble, I believed most everything you said. Even exaggerations…especially exaggerations).

Or that with a racquet in your hand, you’re deadly. I should have clarified that it’s not your weapon of choice in the zombie apocalypse (you’re a bit of a pacifist), but you’re just that good at racquet sports.

As I grew older, I realized that the right thing to do was remain silent. I would hide your accomplishments in my pocket until such time as they were needed. Inevitably, someone would brag that their dad crossed the English Channel or wasn’t kicked out of an American Idol audition and I would counterattack, “Well my dad and I still play racquetball,” whipping the fact out of my pocket (a bit in appropriately, if I might add). “And he’s old.”

Whatever argument they came up with, I would trounce it with a random pick from your list of special abilities or achievements. I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve won just mentioning your M.D/PhD. You really spoiled your kids.

There’s nothing I love more than just being around you, your mere presence is entertaining (with your physician fast-walk and Grinch shirts that are three sizes too big). And even though you’ve turned me into the worst sort of braggart, I don’t hold it against you.

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