Father Going Berserk

At 10 o'clock our family minus Dick, my brother, sit down to table. A hastily improvised breakfast is going to be served this morning, I'm afraid. Perhaps, you can guess why (see Spoiled Breakfast). I've taken a shower (have found from personal experience that it does set up the blood circulation, it does improve the metabolism and to quote the radio PT instructor "it puts you into good spirits for the whole day"). The radio in the dininig room is playing sotto voce and I'm gonna make it just a lil bit louder to hear the news. Everything's going well until they begin broadcasting the sports bulletin. On hearing his favourite team has again lost with a score 3 to nil, father gets angry:

The following discussion then takes place:

Pa: What do you want to clatter the dishes like that for? What's the idea of making it so loud? Anyone would think we're all deaf and dumb with that friggin' radio of yours going full blast.

Ma: Dickhead! You're so cross this morning not because the team you've been rooting for has lost three games in a row by any chance? Is that the reason?

Pa: Might be. Anyway it's no use discussing the results of the last three games now. You would have to be very poorly informed as to sporting matters to think that the temporary successes they have scored...

Ma: Ok, ok. I suppose you know better.

Pa: I'm not so easily swayed by outward impressions as you are sometimes. I make a more fundamental approach to...

Me: Anyone might think you are a sports commentator of something by the way you speak, daddy. It does sound like a professional talk.

Pa: You???!!! Little bastard! If you call this mess an omelet it's certainly a misnomer. I bet this dish betrays a culinary touch of my unexcelled sonny.

Me: I'll see myself in a hot place before I bother with a darn omelet again! It needs expert cooking and I am no cook at all.

Ma: (by way of reconciliation) What does it matter what you call it if only it's tasty and nourishing. Of course, as concerns cooking you males can't do so well as we bitches. But it' only right to give devil his due. I don’t mind you men sometimes rushing in where angels fear to tread.

Pa: (smiling mischievously) You better shut your trap, you lousy c**t! Ok, I’m sorry, son. You see your mother has gone me one better, as usual. Let’s change the subject and talk about something else.

Ma: I hate your father, son!!! He’s a no-account nothing.

Next 3 minutes see my father violently stabbing my mom with a table knife.

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