Bad Fish

Mom and Dad invited a bunch of people to the second presidential debate. Nobody came except grandad and the head writer for Dennis Miller. We had to listen to the candidates yelling because Grandad didn't wear his hearing aid. He doesn't understand or care that Bush was a full 40 times louder to me. That hurt. I don't like what he's saying when I'm just reading his lips. Usually, Mom and Dad hit the mute button when Bush is talking. Mom was very mad at Kerry for not being tough enough on Bush.

Since nobody came, there was a lot of wasted fish. Why would she make fish when she can make anything at all? There's all kinds of good stuff in the fridge--there's 2 packages of hot dogs sitting on Greek left overs from last week. Why couldn't we have those, during the Red Sox game before the dabate like normal people? Instead, they had to have their pretentious, liberal debate fish.

I really don't like fish that much at all. I'll taste it, because it usually has some butter or wine sauce but once you get the sauce off it, it's just foul tasting fish and I spit it out. Finn likes it though, she pushes me out of the way and eats it off the floor. I wonder just how fat she will get. I'll always love her no matter how fat she gets because she let me in here. I've never been so happy.

Dad's happy, but he's always complaining about something. Sometimes Mom feels like she ruined Dad's life.

Mom: "I know you'd rather be living by yourself up in Big Sur. You'd have no responsibilities, you could sell the house, get out of Hollywood and go up there in some sordid cabin and date some divorced hippie who makes candles. You'd have plenty of money and you could lie around with a book on your chest and nap with your mouth open...I'm just your ball and chain."

Dad: "You're not my ball and chain; I'm the ball and chain. You're the wind beneath my ball and chain."

Then Dad went to take a jacuzzi in the dark. He's probably in there complaining while he boils in the hot bubbles.