Teaching your son to drive is kind of fun. I’m kidding, it’s not. Suddenly, he’s in charge of a two ton hunk of metal with nothing in between you and that telephone pole but the sense that was given to a flea. There’s a lot of screaming and crying and bargaining with God. You try to teach them to be good, safe, patient drivers that employ sense and the brake pedal. You try, but then you get questions like this.
“How long can you honk your horn?” Justin asked.
An ominous question to say the least.
“Until the battery runs out,” I said, knowing that I didn’t want to hear what was coming next, although I suspected that I already knew.
“Good because I haven’t found an end to it,” he said, with apparent disgust, undoubtedly because he could recall not applying enough horn to someone who clearly deserved it.
I was right. Now I remember why I don’t want to ride in the truck with him. I’m afraid someone will recognize me. I have half a mind to disconnect the damn thing.
- 28 January 2018
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