rod ash

You will absolutely enjoy this 12 minute film by Australian Patrick Hughes.
Stay with it and you will be rewarded.

Grabbed from: Metacafe

My 20-year-old daughter has a tattoo of a gigantic dead tree on her back.

She says it has a symbolic importance, which she patiently explained to me. Since I am a grey-haired bonehead, her detailed explanation went sailing over my old-guy head.

I have to admit, though, it is somewhat artsy, somewhat striking, and relatively unique. Unfortunately, I might have been the one to teach her that being unique is a virtue.

So now it’s coming back to bite me in my non-tattooed ass.

I told her, “No more goddam tattoo’s, please! What if you want to be a lawyer? Nobody hires a lawyer with a creepy-ass tattoo of a tree on her back!”

She was very calm. “If I wear a blouse, you can’t see it.”

“Okay, fine!” ( Damn, she got me!) But promise me no more tattoo’s!”

She turned and walked away. Showing me her inky back.

Two months later, she calls me: “Dad, I know you’ll be pissed, but I got just one more tattoo.”

I freak, but don’t show it. “Oh, great, super fantastic….”

Then, I go Mr. Wack-Job, “I suppose it’s a freaking black panther eating a green parrot, and it’s supposed to mean something important and mystic, and…and…what the hell is it??!!”

She giggled, “It’s my favorite tattoo so far.” She waits a full two seconds for dramatic effect. “It says ‘Dad’ “.

Damn that kid.

And something very odd happens: a strange salty substance begins to leak from my eyeball. According to the ‘Man Handbook’, this sort of thing is illegal.

Oh well, let ‘em arrest me.

That’s it. Just wanted to warn you.

Not pretty. I’m standing before the big white bowl, when I suddenly cough hard enough to send an extra liter of blood to my brain. This causes my upper dentures to eject forward at 75 mph, splashing into the toilet so hard that drops of water hit my knees.

Yikes, my teeth are in trouble! Bye bye common sense, bye bye intelligence, I fish them out of the yellow pond. With much hatred for myself, but with an equal amount of determination, I scrub them for twenty minutes with my new Wal-Mart toothbrush. Finally, the germs are tired of me and haul their tiny asses to another feasting site.

I saved 900 bucks but lost the last shred of dignity that once lived within me.

Sometimes I think Life is a hungry grizzly bear, entering my campsite at midnight, and I’m asleep with two fresh salmon in my sleeping bag.

He’s says there’s a duck living happily in his pants. It’s painful, or so he tells me. Ducks are large, and they flap their wings a lot, so it might just be a touch uncomfortable.

I ask Uncle Chuck how the duck got, er…in there.

He said, “Oh, it just sorta snuck in when I was takin’ a nap. I had a bunch of breadcrumbs in my pants, so I think that might of contributed to the problem.”

Uncle Chuck was unhappy that he wasn’t a cool looking duck, but a raggedy, bummed-out duck. A duck with no direction home, with that duck-in-the-headlights look. A duck down on his luck, always begging for cheese and quackers.

I see no reason to question my beloved dear uncle.

Oh yeah, Uncle Chuck once swallowed 3 caps of chocolate mescaline on a scorching summer day in 1974 “to prove that the sky is actually melting”.

So there’s that.

Once upon a time, obviously a long time ago, in an ugly brown state populated by idiots and fools, there lived a very wacky dog by the name of Timmy.  He was a shy, quiet little guy, but still able to bark like a freak when the need arose.

But I digress…Uh, actually I don’t. I just think crookedly.

The rain stung my face. (What?) No, literally, I have huge swollen bumps  from the rain. Not bee-stings, but rain-stings, all purplish and unsightly. And now the howling wind is turning my hair into a grey bird’s nest, only without eggs.

And what does that have to do with Timmy the forgetful dog, you ask?

I forget.