Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Oh, have I got a juicy one for you tonight. . .

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog post tonight to present a rant against my Pig of a father.

As soon as they found out that I was keeping a blog, my father and his wife wanted to read it. For reasons that should be obvious to anyone out there who might have been paying attention, I wanted them not to read it. Knowing that they had access to these pages would seriously undermine my ability to express myself freely.

My father kept pressing me for the URL, and I kept ignoring him, hoping that he would get the message. He did not. "Still can't figure out how to find your blog," he would say, and I finally replied in no uncertain terms that I didn't want him to read my blog, that it was quite personal, very much a diary, "and you wouldn't read my diary, would you?"

In addition, I tried to satisfy their morbid curiosity by emailing them some of the more harmless posts, the ones that a) might interest them and b) were within what HR people call "their circle of concern."

Over the weekend I posted a link to the blog on my temporary page at www.ducksoup.me; this had to happen sooner or later, as the blog must play a part in my Grand Scheme for the new website. I cringed when I sent them the link, and hoped that for once -- just once, once, ONE TIME in his life that my father would respect my wishes.

Who was I kidding?

Around noon EST today, the hits on the blog started to go through the roof. I knew exactly what was happening, and sure enough, when I got home there was the email sitting in my inbox. 

I present it here, in full, unedited in any way:

Well, have just spent hours and hours on this material. Wish I had taken notes but then it would be tomorrow. My thien is on a rare solo trip to Flagstaff to use some bonus money she ended up with to buy, a rare event, cosmetics. So I have the time to poke around in your material. Impressions (at least the few that I can remember in my foggy old age): Loved the graphics; Vastly impressed with the terrific, creative, high energy, originality of the whole thing - clearly talent you got from your Mom not me; wonderful depth of perception in your analysis; effective use of software to organize, cross reference, provide moving pictures, etc. Wish we could have been close enough so that you could have shared your hard fight with the drinking and your apparent success - all alluded to only briefly here and there - but only intensified our (both My thien and I) pride in you! Had no idea that you so (apparently) resented My's help in vetting your nomination of that house that now is yours. In all those hours I think there was only one thing I really must disagree with. My thien would kill me for saying this, but I really feel I must. She will never know. You make the statement at some point that you owe it all to your Mom. (Referring to the new house.) Now I will credit her with giving birth to you; to giving you your wonderful talent; but major credit or sole credit for your new house, sorry old Son, that just won't wash with me. She spent literally millions of dollars (collectively from her folks and from me) so the fact that a little was left in the estate for you, which I had urged her to make 100% to you,  to use to afford it is hardly to her credit. Furthermore, YOU EARNED IT, EVERY PENNY OF IT, taking care of her. Further, had you to wait until proceeds from auctions and sale of Albion (that I bought) came in, you never would have ended up with 87 Western. Possibly you would have ended up with something better, that I grant you. One cannot play the "what if" game to any benefit. But without My thien fronting the money, it never would have happened. You have the credit to have picked the place. My thien has the credit to vetted it and fronted the money to have it happen. You have the credit to have made it happen. My opinion - which I know you value little - is that your Mom takes NO credit for this one. If this only enhances your negative feelings for us, so be it. Dad

I have pretty much been ballistic ever since, all evening long. I shot back this reply:

See, I asked you not to read the blog, and this is WHY I asked you not to read the blog.

Later, while dinner was in the oven, II expanded upon it thus:

I don't know where you get the notion that I resented My's participation. I never felt nor wrote anything of the sort, and I just went back and checked.

This is why you can NOT read the blog!!!!!

You pull this stuff out of your ass, and it's your own damn fault. You were asked not to read the blog, and I gave you my reasons. And yet the first chance you got, you went shooting right on over there,

Stop. Reading. Now. I will continue to provide the posts to you that I think could be of interest to you, or that are within your circle of concern.

If you continue to read, be warned that I am not going to feel responsible for your reactions and feelings. You were warned.

I feel just like you went into my bedroom and took my diary out of the drawer and read it without permission.

My father has made it his business to betray everyone in the family at one time or another, sometimes multiple times, and this is just another instance. I know very damn well that he will compound this by putting it all in one of his "Friends and Family" letters, and, you know, fine, whatever. 

Actually, I hope the son of a bitch does read this one. 

Actions have consequences, Dad. . . and it's shit like this that has caused us so much trouble over the years.

-- Freder.

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