Wednesday, July 28, 2004

A Plea

Let's get serious here folks.  My father is 51 years old.  He's old and feeble, confined to a hyperbaric oxygen chamber 23 hours a day.  Once an all-state linebacker who lined up next to sometime Giant great Gary Reasons, my father is now a shell of his former self.  Gray-haired, liver marked, gaunt, frail, lithe...no, wait, not lithe...it's a sad state of affairs for this once proud warrior.  His once robust business selling Italian Ices to poor kids, for free, in downtown Newark, is floundering.  Once capable of walking up and down stairs, he's now unable to whip the large Samoan man we've hired to piggy-back him up to his bedroom.  And last week, he broke his wrist while turning a page in the newspaper.

Last Christmas, my Uncle Bob thrilled us yet again with his finger trick, where he can bend his repeatedly broken pinky finger at an obscene 90-degree angle in any direction.  This was always the epitome of Fiedler familial body tricks...until my dad, stricken with gout and Giambi-esque parasites, revealed a far greater talent: He was so weakened by years of lupus and scabies that he was able to actually remove his right arm just below his shoulder, stick it up to his face just below his nose and pretend it was a moustache.  We all had a laugh til we realized his nose was bleeding all over his arm and, well, with that hemophilia...

Anyway, this decrepid old man is going to help me move my furniture into my apartment in Brooklyn this weekend.  I've asked my "friends" for help but, well, they're worthless.  More useless than tits on a bull.  So my dad, whose spine was replaced by balsa wood and fishing line a few years back...after 'Nam..., is going to be there for his boy.  What a shame!

So here's the proposal:  Let's make this happen, good readers.  To those hale and hearty, I ask for you to look deep within yourself and ask, "Should Don's dad really be forced to die just because Don found a sweet deal on a kickass block just steps from the Promenade?"  I think you'll find your answer is no. 

Sunday, whenever, be there or be at my dad's funeral.  It's your call.

And I'm serious, I need help.

3 Comments:

At 4:12 PM, Blogger Bart Starbux said...

I'll have you know, Rex Fielder is far from feeble. Last Saturday, I got in a fight with him and woke up with a busted finger and a huge knot on my forehead. Wait, that wasn't Rex. It was Silver Strike. But still...

Anyway, it's your fault you have no help. Had you moved any time over the last five months, your trusty friend and neighbor would have been there to help. You were never one for timing. What a penis.

 
At 5:01 PM, Blogger Ace Cowboy said...

What's next, is he going to drive you to the airport?

 
At 11:35 AM, Blogger jakezebra said...

I will be there to help as soon as I nurse Textbook back to health, in hopes that he will be a 30-30 guy this year in beer softball.

 

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