Where’s my fucking chips

I’m setting up a game of Catan in the living room. Meanwhile, my dad is hunting through the freezer drawers for chips. He wrenches open each drawer, paws through it, then slams it shut again. “Where’s my fucking chips?” he yells, with a hint of desperation in his voice. “That packet of chips was as big as the microwave drawer! I bought it from Costco only last weekend! Where the fuck is it?”

My sister is a diplomat and offers an alternative: “Have some microwave rice instead,” she says, brightly.

Quick as Tourette’s, my dad replies, “Fuck off! I don’t want your fucking shitty rice.” Then he resumes mauling through the freezer. The rustle of the packets of frozen peas stifles the atmosphere. My brother and I exchange an amused but worried glance.

“Have a jacket potato,” chirps my sister. She seems oblivious to my dad’s anger. She is like a baby crawling towards a steamroller.

My dad snaps. “Fuck off!” he roars. “Don’t tell me what to eat!” Then he finds some chips, but not the Costco chips he wanted. Regardless, he throws these second-rate chips into the oven and then slams the oven door.

Then, on an unrelated errand, he fetches four huge army bags from his car. He carries each bag into the house and throws it into the living room, tripping on laptop cables as he goes. His huge boots scatter the Catan game I had just set up.

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