That was the conversational equivalent of a paternity test right there.

On this particular night, mom was (clearly) out of town with my sister. Dad, after apparently suffering a traumatic brain injury, decides to go out drinking with his son. The problem is, the son was still 7 years old at the time. It turns out that in Texas in the early 80s, this is not a problem. Hell, the beer joint we hit sold candy and had video games. So while Dad was getting lit, I was eating Kit Kats and playing Space Invaders. Everything was grand.

As the evening progressed, Dad made big plans. He and a friend decided that they had some drunk driving to do, and before I knew it, I was riding bitch on the second most ill-advised drive of all time (first place), oblivious to anything but my sudden lack of Kit Kats and Space Invaders. Dad had snagged a bottle of homemade wine from the house, and he and his buddy were actually passing the bottle back and forth while Dad drove us around. What can I say? It was a simpler time.

Evenutally, the bottle started making stops at me on its way across the truck. I was encouraged to drink. In hindsight, I guess it was one of those, “Hey, let’s get the cat high” situations. We’ve all done it; there’s really no reason to judge. While the immediate effect of the wine was to make me think that everything was funny, it wasn’t long before I tipped over, lying on the seat of the truck, praying for death. Turns out I was a lightweight in 2nd grade. You show me a man who says Kit Kats can’t do backflips, and I’ll punch him in the face. Dad’s friend began to enthusiastically discuss his skill at barbecuing goat, which oddly enough wasn’t helping matters. This night marks the first time of many that I have actively prayed for death.

Mercifully, the night ended, which marks the beginning of the consequences for Dad. Mom returned, and strangely, was supremely pissed. Throw in the fact that the bottle of wine we drained was actually a gift for her, and Dad was summarily shitlisted. For weeks afterward, my spelling sentences included at least one statement of my love of getting drunk on grape wine on Saturdays with my dad. It’s amazing that I didn’t become a foster child.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. My dad, preparing for a long day of moving my sister a quarter of the way across the state (Texas, not one of those gnat’s ass eastern states), stumbled out to his truck and started it up. ShopCat, who apparently wasn’t great at selecting hiding places, was immediately sliced to death by the fan blade.

When they got to my house to pick me up, my stepmom was a little shaken. Dad was taking it in stride, which is to say he was largely indifferent. And I renamed him ChopCat to mixed, albeit largely negative reactions.

What are you looking at? Geez, re-read the url, people.