It was a day like any other day, a hot day in May, and we were out gathering hay, which was tough as there was no pay, but which, as they say, was OK.
So, there we were in field, counting the yield, and thinking, well, yeah, it's pretty well-healed, when up staggers this old bloke, a total lush, a real old soak, and he says, “Gimme a drink,” complete straight face, no hint of a joke, or a nudge, or a wink.
And I say, “Do you think that this is a fucking bar, where you can just order up a jar?” And he blinks and says, “Sorry, ‘must have left my glasses in the car.”
“Say what?” I reply.
“George Scott,” he says with a sigh, offering a hand, “I used to play in a band, before I got canned.”
“That's too bad,” I say, but I'm not really sad.
“I know,” he replies, “and, by the way, I'm your dad!”
That takes the wind out of my sails, down there amongst the hay bales.
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