My Dad

Of the many defining moments I could pick out to describe how kick ass my father is, one sticks out indefinitely, and I still can't believe he survived it.

My father has always possessed a temper, which usually builds quietly throughout the day until it's sparked like a firecracker.

Then, explosions ensue.

Dad drives, a lot. His job duties take him pretty much to every corner of New York state. If you haven't visited New York or still possess a third-grade geography competence, the state is massive. He sometimes logs a few thousand miles a week, and sometimes is happy to brag of his feats to family, where some type of impossible time record is claimed. Imagine all the assholes you see on the road during a quick run to the store for a gallon of milk. Now multiply that by 100. That's what he deals with.

Anyway, a few years back he was in Binghamton when he was attempting to move into the right-turn lane near an intersection. He pulled alongside a tanker truck that was stopped in the center lane. All of a sudden the huge tanker starts swinging toward my dad's Ford Taurus. Then it gets closer. And it's not stopping.

Dad quickly realized that Dumbfuck was attempting to pull into the gas station to his right, without giving any consideration or thought that another car may be in the right lane. Dumbfuck also was impervious to the constant sound of my father's horn, what with all the Travis Tritt music blasting I'm sure.

My father had nowhere to turn, and his car bore the brunt of the ensuing metal sandwhich. Both driver's side windows exploded. The top of the roof bowed in. The front windshield cracked and eventually evaporated into shards, and the back windshied snapped out as well, which makes sense since the wheels of the tanker truck were now on top of my dad's trunk.

Time for fireworks.

Both Dumbfuck guy and dad pull into the gas station, (after, you know, Dumbfuck managed to get his tanker truck off my father's car.) Uncle Jed hops out of the cab of his truck wearing -- I swear to God -- bib denim overalls, a wife beater and a mesh baseball hat with the insignia of chewing tobacco.

By the way, my dad hates Rednecks.

The two of them -- my father in his slacks, starched shirt and tie and Uncle Jed in his backwoods attire -- immediately close the distance to one another and start jawing. Profanities, including "ignorant piece of shit" and "cocksucker," escaped my father's lips at some point.

"I was in his face spitting on him saying 'I'm gonna kill you motherfucker,'" Dad said. "I know the guy had a shotgun in the cab, and he was debating the prison time."

The threats of death, the insults directed at the trucker's manhood and spittles apparently weren't enough.

Oh no, not for my dad.

Time for the coup de grace.

My father gets up in his face, looks dead in his eyes and screams "Fuck you, you fucking hillbilly."

Now, numerous seniors have told me that once you hit 50, you kind of don't give a fuck anymore. I guess at that age you get a little cocky because you've already made it through so much shit that you lose a small modicum of self-preservation.

But this was pushing it. Dumbfuck, however, either wasn't much for "fa'tin," or didn't want to go to prison, probably because he knew what it was like, so he left my dad alone. The screaming match ended when police arrived shortly after. My dad got a ticket.

I love my dad.