Dude’s always creepin’ on my status

So my dad, like, he has to write these columns every week, and Sunday night he’s always, “Ohh noooo, I gotta write another column. Waaah.” He closes his eyes and grabs the side of his head like it’s gonna explode and he has to hold his brains in.So I’m like, “Bro, it’s not that hard,” and he says, “Well, you do it then.”
“Yeah, make me.” I know what’s coming, but I’m up for a challenge, and he goes, “Do you know what would’ve happened to me if I talked to my dad that way?” and I’m smartin’ off like, “No, Dad, tell me about it for the millionth time.”
“I would’ve gotten spanked on my bare butt.”
Come on, Bro. Now I’m gonna be thinking about your bare butt all night. Gross.
And he says, “No, really, just to teach you a lesson about HARD WORK AND RESPONSIBILITY, if you want your allowance this week, YOU write my column” and I’m like, “Okay, just to show you how EASY it is I’ll do it.”
So here goes… Topic: My pa.
My pa’s such a hater, he can barely stand to watch TV for five minutes without hating on everything. Sports, beer commercials, fast food, Republicans, Democrats, even the news (!!!), all my favorite shows, Jersey Shore, Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory, all my websites, Imgur, he absolutely hates Imgur for some reason, and he says it “Im-ger” instead of “Im-jer.” I mean, get it right, Gramps.
When he’s not hatin’ he’s creepin’. Creepin’ on my Twitter, creepin’ on my Facebook, creepin’ on my blog.
“Leif,” he says. “How late were you up last night? You posted at 12:30.”
And I’m like, “Dad! Quit creepin’ on my status!”
So he says, “when you quit using MY computer, you should log out.”
“Bro,” I say, “you don’t have to look.”
“Don’t call me ‘bro,’” he says. “I’m not one of your 8-year-old friends.”
“I’m not 8, man,” I say, and see what I mean about hatin’ on everything?
“Just don’t look at my personal stuff,” I say.
“It’s my computer,” he says. “If you want to use it, I get to look at everything you do on it — browsing history, Facebook comments, Tweets. Sorry, sonny, but that’s life in the big city.”
That’s how they talked in the olden days.
“Dad,” I say. “That’s not fair.”
“No one ever said life was fair,” he says.
That makes a million and one times for that line. “It’s total invasion of my privacy,” I say.
“Privacy is a luxury,” he says, “and you can have all you want when you’re paying your own bills and cooking your own meals and driving yourself to all your activities. Do you know how lucky you are to have the stupid little problems you complain about? Like privacy?”
And I go “Do you even hear what you just said?” I mean, all I ever hear from him is complaining and hating, and here I am, almost at the end of this column, and it was like the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
So I read this thing to him I found on Imgur called “First World Problems.” It’s all these guys that are listing all these stupid worries we have in our life that aren’t even worries at all, like our internet is too slow, or our yoga class got canceled.
“Dude,” he says, “that’s pretty good.”
I’m not kidding. He called ME dude!?
“But if you EVER post a swear word on your Facebook you’re DONE using MY computer.” Back to reality. Hatin’, hatin’, hatin’. Dude needs to chill.
Leif Larson is the son of the editor of the Messenger. He didn’t write this column, but he helped.


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