In the previous post I described how my son had mocked my narrow readership a few days ago. That wasn't the only insult he hurled my way last week.
At one point I mentioned to him that there were a couple of jobs I think I'd be good at, and which I'd enjoy, but which I could never get. (Retirement has started to seem like purgatory.) One job would be working for the FBI tracking down and helping convict sociopaths (not necessarily serial killers). Another would be teaching a course on sociopathy at the college level. My son agreed, "Yeah, you'd never be able to get those jobs," then added, "You know what I think you'd be good at? Being a Squeegee guy."
At one point he expressed annoyance that I would write those pieces about basic training, etc, which were essentially pieces about him. He shook his head disgustedly and said, "Telling you something is a little like saying it into a microphone."
"Dad, I care about you about as much as Tyke [our dog] cares about the French stock market."
Once, at the pool, Johnny put his hands on his pectoral muscles and pushed downward, as if to prematurely demonstrate the effect of gravity on an aging body. "Look," he said, "I'm Dad."
And, of course, the old standby: "You can't be my real father. You're too ugly. My real father is Sean Connery."