Dad: Hey son, since you'll be moving in a week, your mother and I would like to take the whole family out to dinner Friday night at the golf club. It's a nice place, so no jeans, okay?
Me: What's the catch?
Dad: What do you mean?
Me: In 26 years, the fanciest place we've ever gone is Denny's. What's the catch?
Dad: We've gone to plenty of nice places.
Me: Didn't you take mom to Hardee's for her birthday?
Dad: I did not! Trust me, there's no catch.
Me: I don't know what you're up to, but I'm calling shenanigans and checking the trunk of your car.
Dad: For what?
Me: Chloroform.
Dad: What on earth would I need that for?
Me: To knock me out and tie me up in your trunk so I can't leave. I know you and mom too well.
Dad: Nonsense. It'll be a nice family dinner. You can order whatever you want.
Me: Three t-bone steaks.
Dad: Huh?
Me: One to eat there, and two to eat during the drive to California.
Dad: Um . . .
Me: Why can't I wear jeans? To me, a nice dinner doesn't involve looking like a sissy.
Dad: Just don't wear your "fuck you" smiley face t-shirt. That's all I ask.
Me: Sigh. Fine.
Dad: Just put on some khakis and you'll be fine.
Me: Why not add a sweater vest to that?
Dad: That sounds good.
Me: You bastard.
Dad: What'd I say?
Me: What kind of a father wants his son to be gay?
Dad: I don't . . . what?
Me: Do you really want me to have to go through that kind of suffering, dad? I'll stay straight, thank you very much.
Dad: Um . . . yay?
Me: But I'm still checking your car for chloroform, roofies, sharp objects with which to slash my tires, and drunken underage girls with which to get me arrested.
Dad: I can guarantee my car will be clear of everything except the underage girls.
Me: That's . . . that's actually okay. I don't mind the risk.
Dad: I know, son. After all, you're my kin.
Me: Are all members of the Ryan family guaranteed to be perverts, dad?
Dad: As far as history has shown us, yes.
Me: Sweet.
