Yesterday morning I had breakfast with my father, who was in town for the weekend. I told him about the fantasy I had in August that a giant sinkhole would open up under Madison Square Garden during the Republican National Convention and swallow the entire party whole.
My father replied, “See, Faustus, that’s your problem. You refuse to believe that it actually happened.”
“I refuse to believe that the Republicans won?”
“No, you refuse to believe that the sinkhole did open up and swallow them all whole. There are no Republicans anymore.”
“But what about the election?”
Even in childhood I was a fairly good practitioner of denial. But my father–he is a true artist.
he sounds divine. can we borrow him for abit?
That’s impressive. I love your father to death. Have you told the story about his letter to the newspaper here?
I had a friend whose lovely mother apparently refused to admit that Ronald Reagan was President during the eight years of his reign. Apparently, she would look gently and indulgently at anyone who mentioned “President Reagan” as though they were discussing the Easter Bunny or the Elders of Zion…
Yeah, my fathers the same way. I said, “but dad, I will probably never have biological grandchildren – your granddaughters a lesbian.” He said, “no she’s not, she’s a Christian. She’ll grow of it.”
Does your father really call you Faustus? This makes me extremely curious about the origin of your pseudonym.