Stories from the dinner table...

(terrorist fist jabs)
Last night dad picked me up from Ann Arbor and brought me home to celebrate his 50th birthday. I enjoyed not cooking dinner and mom, dad, Joe and I had some laughs at the table. After dinner was over, Joe started clearing the table. He came and sat on my lap putting an arm around my neck. Seconds later my knees started rumbling under the oppressive squeal of his farts. He laughed hysterically as I screamed. Mom and dad got up to leave the table. Joe stood and extended both arms saying, "come on! That was good!" as he tried to fist bump the parentals. They did not oblige.


(my dad's a hobo)
So every time we go to a restaurant (or any public place where one could be humiliated) my dad harasses the wait staff. Tonight our waitress was a young girl, often absent from the table.
Dad: I have these two coupons for dinner.
Waitress: You can only use one per table, sorry.
Dad: What if we split the bill?
Waitress: Nope.
Dad: What if I pretend I'm from another table.
Waitress: Nope.
Dad: What if...
Mom: You can just ignore him. He follows us everywhere.
Waitress: Oh so you don't actually know him?
Dad: No they actually followed me here to dinner.
Waitress: Oh so are you like that hobo where the high school kids followed him around and kept having sex with him until he got them pregnant?
Dad: What??? ...No.