Conversations With My Father: part II

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how my dad chose the wrong vocation in life. Rather than being a boring government worker, he should have become a serial novelist or editor of the National Enquirer. With an uncanny knack for devising hopelessly irrational conspiracy theories about the government (all this despite being a faithful employee for some twenty-odd years), it is easy to see why I became an English major. It runs in the family. Except he's a lot better at it than me.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

Sitting on my bed one evening just reading myself to sleep, my dad suddenly bursts into my room.

Dad: Can you look at this? (it's a permission slip for my brother's chorus trip) I shouldn't sign it right?
Me: reads the sheet. The school wants you to sign and verify that your child isn't bringing any illegal weapons on the trip. If you sign it, then the teacher doesn't need to search his belongings.
Dad: But why should I sign? Doing so means they have the right to rummage through your stuff! There's no privacy! I think it's ridiculous to be searched.
Me: But that's why you sign. So they won't search.
Dad: No. We shouldn't sign. I heard on the news that the government can just come to your house and search you for no reason!
Me: ....
Dad: You could sign your life away and not even know it!
Me: You're right, dad. Everyone is out to get you.
Dad: Yes, always be careful about what you sign.

postscript: my dad did eventually sign the permission slip