Your life is pretty empty because you travel a lot. You represent a company that has created a state-of-the-art traffic light technology that, between you and whomever happens to be drinking next to you at the motel bar, is not all that exciting (Instead of red-yellow-green, it uses red-burnt sienna-green). You know your wife has affairs while you're on the road, and you only hope that you can travel long enough for her to enjoy the full life of the affair and break it off before you come home. You hate it when she feels the need to confess and forces you to beg that she end it and stay.
You'll be arriving in Dayton today at three. By ten pm (seven Makers Marks later) you'll be propped up on your unyielding motor inn bed staring at a Murder She Wrote on the TV. That's when you'll meet the Patio Furniture King of Dayton.
"If you can find a cheaper patio set within 50 miles, I shall with grace and dignity abdicate my throne to thee. But not before I beat that price!"
The Patio Furniture King of Dayton is your Dad. He left your mother right before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. You and your sisters wrote him and told him to come back and make peace before she was gone, but he never responded. That was twelve years ago. You assumed he got a lot farther away than Dayton.
Now he's on your TV in a furry red cloak and a big plastic yellow crown screaming about remote controlled umbrellas. Tomorrow, after you meet the mayor and his comptroller, go pay a visit to the Kingdom of Patio Furniture and tell his highness that he's a goddamn son of a bitch.
Happy Your Dad Is The Patio Furniture King Of Dayton Day!
