Dad says I'm something called curmudgeonly. I think he's an asshat, and doesn't know what the hell he's talking about most of the time.
I just looked the word up, and I think HE'S the curmudgeon, not me. I'm right- he doesn't know what he's talking about. He's watching what I'm writing, and he says there's a place for me up in the balcony sandwiched between Statler and Waldorf, whoever the hell they are.
I wish he would just go to work and leave me alone.
Mom got him a package of Poppycock yesterday. Apparently, that's his favorite snack. He opened it last night while they watched t.v., and although it supposedly contained six servings, he downed it all in one sitting. Who the hell can really only eat one half-cup portion of caramel-coated popcorn and pecans anyway? Certainly not dad.
Wow! Curmudgeon, asshat, and Poppycock. Pay attention, class. There'll be an exam tomorrow.