I had lunch with my father the other day. He was texting at the table (rude, yes?) and laughing to himself. I asked what was so important and humorous that it needed to intrude on our vitally important father/daughter time.
Quick backstory–Poppa plays trumpet and many months ago a friend accidentally sat in a chair upon which the trumpet was placed. Friend was mortified, trumpet has been fully repaired. Trumpet sitting friend was at an event with other people my father knows.
What was my father texting? A photo of the smushed trumpet. To whom was he texting? A mutual friend of Poppa’s and the smusher. The instructions to the friend? Go show this photo to Bob and see what he has to say about it. He then proceeded to text the same message to two additional friends. Wiseass. Just imagine what we endured as children. I think I am remarkably well-adjusted to have grown up with him as one of my “grown-ups.”
You Can't Get This From a Bottle 
Comments on: "One of the reasons I am so damned weird" (1)
Sounds like one cool pop to me. =P
And who was raising who when you were growing up?