"You worry too much. Eat some bacon... What? No, I got no idea if it'll make you feel better, I just made too much bacon."
My Dad called up today to wish me a Happy Birthday -- confident, I think, that it is November 1st, and that he was in fact, two days early (as opposed to one month late).
My friends pointed out, "well, at least he remembered." Yes. He did. He remembered I was born. Forty-some years ago. Give or take a month.
I enjoyed giving him a hard time, but I really did think it was kinda funny.
Once he realized his gaffe, he changed the subject(s) pretty quickly, which included: the sub-par barbecue he and Uncle Woody had for lunch today (the worst of their lives!); the outrage of the "tree-huggers" protesting naming that dormitory Coal, when it wouldn't bother ANYbody if they named it Makers Mark and how the mountain behind his house is "worth a lot more now than it was when Dan'l Boone come thru"; and, finally, on a semi-related note (somehow) "Rupert Murdoch might be the lowest sonofabitch to ever walk the earth but if you expect to have enough signal to watch Law & Order you goddam well better have Direct TV." (I think he was equating Murdoch with the Coal Barons, but I'm not sure.)