The Snores Heard Round the World

Ok so it I sit hunched over my laptop for the third sleepless night in a row wondering what possessed me to think it a viable option to occupy the same condo/hotel suite as my father. I had almost forgotten those long ago teenage years when I would lay smothered beneath my pillow on the floor trying to block out the Snore heard round the world. When I was younger my father worked sort of like a babysitter in assisted living home for the mentally ill. As a live-in type scenario during the weekdays it was much closer to my school thus I ended up spending many a night on a futon on the floor saying my oft repeated prayer

“God bless mommy and daddy and all our friends and God please…. let me fall asleep before Dad starts snoring”

Until I joined the military my dads snoring was sort of an indescribable experience, however being the honorable war veteran that I am, I find myself jolted awake reaching frantically for my 9mm listening for the next incoming round…of course that is on the lucky occasion that I happen to fall asleep first which has happened a grand total of twice…. Back in my younger days I had that sort of careless ask not what you can do for your parents but what your parents can do for you attitude, which left me by no means above any measure needed to get sleep. Since I could not actually throw anything at my father (mostly because the evidence would bounce off his head and still be there to get me in trouble directly), I found the most efficient method was a quick loud noise that would be enough to wake him up, but still leave him snorting and unsure as to exactly how he came about waking up. Meanwhile I would dive under the covers and count sheep triple time trying to fall asleep before the inevitable. Now of course I’m older and he’s got that guilty, old man thing going for him. Unable to lower myself to yelp, clap or whistle, I instead resort to furiously typing a phone text message that would transcend across thousands of miles to bitch and whine to the only person who could really understand my agony… my mother.

“He’s killing me here Ma, how did you not smother him to death?”

I mean seriously I would have divorced him after 3 days. What I’m not sure is if this is sort of like a short little redneck thing, respiratory illness, or if some evil struggle for the soul of mankind is being fought in there. Of course then he is up at the ass crack of dawn leaving me to hiss and glare and the fresh mornings dew. I suppose in the grand scheme of things I probably don’t need as much sleep being here due to the energy per time ratio I’m averaging. I would say its about 9 hours of sitting on my ass watching Gastineau Girls or Growing up Gotti, to about 10 minutes of actual movement other than that of the remote control persuasion, maybe 5 minutes if you cut out bathroom breaks and nose picking. Of course I blame Iraq for all of this. Spending 11 months in the desert with Mr. terrorist bombing bastard playing “Where’s Waldo” throughout the country it makes you unable to come back and take anything whatsoever seriously. I mean all I want to do is sip latte’s, read Cosmo and talk about Brittany Spears (who buys their own ring anyway?). Of course also I am in Hilo Hawaii, which in some not so discreet ways conjures up nostalgic memories of some of the backwoods country folk I encountered in my brief, yet excruciating stay in Missouri. Case and point, the rather robust man I noticed on the back roads leading away from my dads property fixing his truck in a pair of blue jean overalls and most obviously not much else. I suppose when you have that much back hair, clothing pretty much becomes optional. I look forward to what tomorrow brings….