Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Ok, this one is for Existential Waitress, because she loves this story. 

The year is 1973.  The month, December.  I have just been born (Yes, that is right. I am that old).  My Dad takes my brother to see Santa because my mom is at home with me attached to her boob (seems Bug gets her boobaholicism from me).  The Santa event is at the local shopping center.  The one where all the uptight suburban moms take their kids.  The kids of these moms dociliy wait in single file line while their moms fidget with their "do's" and chit-chat about wallpaper.  Ah, the 70's.  Good Times. 

My dad does not fit in to this line.  Not at all.  My dad looks like a thug.  My dad is NOT a thug but he looks like one because he is an undercover federal agent and it is the 70's so his hair is a long curly wigged out mass of black hot mess and he has a looong beard accompanied by a moustache.  He wears dark shades, a pimped out leather jacket and badass boots.  So, the stick-up-their-butt moms are already obviously uncomfortable with this dude in their pristine line.  But my brother is excited.  He is about two and a half.  He loves trucks.  LOVES trucks.  And he is so excited to ask Santa for a fire engine.  He wants it, wants it bad.  So the line moves along and it is finally my brother's turn and he sits on Santa's lap and the conversation goes something like this:

Santa:  What do you want for Christmas?
Brother: A red fire engine.
Santa: Well, if you are a good boy, you might get one.
Brother: But I want it now!
Santa: Oh no, you have to wait until Christmas.
Brother:  FUCK OFF, Santa!!!

My father high-tailed it out of there, feeling the glares as he left like icey daggers in his back.  I don't think my dad ever did Santa duty again.