218. Write about a lie your parents told you.
Just one? Because I can think of a whole slew of tales my old man used to spin... Christ, he must've had three or four new ones every day, liked to try 'em out on me. Not that any of them ever really got to me, but that's another story. My father was a real pro at kidding anyone and everyone--I may not've liked what he said, but I've got to applaud him for the sort of bull he came up with; it was almost admirable, in its own way--and I'm not sure that he ever got much into that whole business of truth.
I'm not saying my mother was a saint, either. She didn't lie as often, but then, she also didn't say as much. It was the old man who did most of the talking; guess that was always enough for her. You could say she supported him with her silence, if you want, or you can just forget about it. I'm not going to force you, either way.
The point is there were a lot of lies, even if my esteemed father liked to pretend everything he said was the truth. And if ever I questioned him--which, of course, I did--he'd pull that "honor thy father and mother" bunk, expecting me to fall for it. Expecting me to believe that face he put on for the whole town, the "holier than thou and here to save you" look of a minister that they wanted to see. Ohhh, when people saw my old man walking down the street, they knew he was a preacher, no doubt about that. And he liked them to know, not that he'd ever come out and admit it.
Of course, a minister never lies, or even misleads just a little bit... And if you believe that, we-ell, you're an even bigger sucker than most, and that's saying something. I don't even know what the hell a minister's supposed to tell the truth about. Sure, he can spout off some sort of bull about what he thinks is the "moral" life, or the "good" life, but that's mostly a matter of opinion. Most of 'em don't stick to that sort of advice, anyway. They start in on hell and damnation and whatever sort of God they've got up in the sky, but what the hell do they actually know about any of that? Not a thing, boys and girls; not a thing. What you need to teach is experience, and here's no chance of them having any of that.
So my old man was a father and a minister. That's two strikes against him, right there, and he never really tried to get over any of that. I mean, he'd try making me believe his stories, but he was never really convincing, and I never bought it. Talking back in school gives a bad mark in some sainted book in heaven? All right, I'll fill a whole page with my name. Hanging out with hookers is a sure ticket to hell? We-ell, give me a girl, and sign me up for a one-way trip to visit that old devil. Maybe I'll send you a postcard, just to let you know how it is, whether you managed to be right about any of it. Who knows; maybe you got lucky.
He didn't like my kidding back, but that goes without saying. See, that was the problem with my old man's line of bull: he took himself too seriously. I don't know whether he actually believed what he said, but he sure liked to act as if he did. I learned what all of it really meant early on, and I learned how to take his bull, but I could never understand why he had to be so serious about it all the time. It wasn't as if everything he was talking about really was the end of the world; he should've known that. Ahhh well. I've never claimed to know everything about what my father did; I can just say he lied, and I'm pretty sure he liked those lies well enough to pretend he really did believe.
Living with a piece of work like that, is it any wonder I got to be so damned good at kidding others? I've said it before, and I'll confess it again: I owe my old man for that knack of mine, anyway.
I'm not saying my mother was a saint, either. She didn't lie as often, but then, she also didn't say as much. It was the old man who did most of the talking; guess that was always enough for her. You could say she supported him with her silence, if you want, or you can just forget about it. I'm not going to force you, either way.
The point is there were a lot of lies, even if my esteemed father liked to pretend everything he said was the truth. And if ever I questioned him--which, of course, I did--he'd pull that "honor thy father and mother" bunk, expecting me to fall for it. Expecting me to believe that face he put on for the whole town, the "holier than thou and here to save you" look of a minister that they wanted to see. Ohhh, when people saw my old man walking down the street, they knew he was a preacher, no doubt about that. And he liked them to know, not that he'd ever come out and admit it.
Of course, a minister never lies, or even misleads just a little bit... And if you believe that, we-ell, you're an even bigger sucker than most, and that's saying something. I don't even know what the hell a minister's supposed to tell the truth about. Sure, he can spout off some sort of bull about what he thinks is the "moral" life, or the "good" life, but that's mostly a matter of opinion. Most of 'em don't stick to that sort of advice, anyway. They start in on hell and damnation and whatever sort of God they've got up in the sky, but what the hell do they actually know about any of that? Not a thing, boys and girls; not a thing. What you need to teach is experience, and here's no chance of them having any of that.
So my old man was a father and a minister. That's two strikes against him, right there, and he never really tried to get over any of that. I mean, he'd try making me believe his stories, but he was never really convincing, and I never bought it. Talking back in school gives a bad mark in some sainted book in heaven? All right, I'll fill a whole page with my name. Hanging out with hookers is a sure ticket to hell? We-ell, give me a girl, and sign me up for a one-way trip to visit that old devil. Maybe I'll send you a postcard, just to let you know how it is, whether you managed to be right about any of it. Who knows; maybe you got lucky.
He didn't like my kidding back, but that goes without saying. See, that was the problem with my old man's line of bull: he took himself too seriously. I don't know whether he actually believed what he said, but he sure liked to act as if he did. I learned what all of it really meant early on, and I learned how to take his bull, but I could never understand why he had to be so serious about it all the time. It wasn't as if everything he was talking about really was the end of the world; he should've known that. Ahhh well. I've never claimed to know everything about what my father did; I can just say he lied, and I'm pretty sure he liked those lies well enough to pretend he really did believe.
Living with a piece of work like that, is it any wonder I got to be so damned good at kidding others? I've said it before, and I'll confess it again: I owe my old man for that knack of mine, anyway.