I just called to wish my most awesome dad a most awesome birthday. Because we just can’t seem to help ourselves, the conversation took a bit of a turn.
Me: Oh, I heard back from the vet. Lil’ Frankfurter’s tests all came back normal. There’s nothing wrong with him.
Mom: Well, pssh.
Me: I know, right? There’s nothing wrong with him, except he’s wasting away.
Dad: He’s so thin.
Mom: Did I send you that dog food recipe?
Me: Yeah. But it doesn’t matter what I feed him – he just keeps losing weight.
Mom: He eats and he poops, but nothing happens in between.
Me: Right! I mean, he poops like a champion.
Dad: I’ve always thought so.
Mom: He’s just so cute – and you think, “oh, look at how he’s sitting in the middle of the patio … “
Me: … and then you realize he’s taking a giant dump in that delicate little stance.
Dad: He’s got good form.
Me: Happy birthday, Dad! Let’s talk about poop!
Mom: Well, it could be worse. It’s not like we’re talking about a human family member.
Dad: No. We’re way too classy for that.
Me: We could be all, “Oh, say what you will about Uncle Floyd, but he could really take a dump.”
Mom: Well, we all have our special gifts.
Dad: Ha! “You know, with Uncle Floyd, you always knew when it was time to leave the house.”
Mom: Yeah! And “You knew it was best to let things air out a bit after Floyd had used the facilities.”
Me: Sorry, Dad. This really devolved.
Dad: I would expect nothing less.