Crete

My dad is the crankiest old fuck you will ever meet. He watches a lot of Greek TV news and seems to think it's a battle between him and the presenter where whoever shouts loudest about how fucked the Greek government is wins.  We've lived here for as long as I've been alive.  He loves to yell and he spends all day drinking American whiskey.  I've asked him about that because he always says USA is a place for faggots, but apparently that doesn't matter.  

The Greek government is fucked.  That is my reality.  Every day, we have to scream that the Greek government is so fucked and ultimately the screaming drowns out the TV no matter how loud it was in the first place. Whenever there is an election, my dad burns tires in the street.  Sometimes he burns 30 or 40 tires per night.  He just gets junkyard tires and pours gasoline all over them and lights them up.  The thick, black smoke is impossible to navigate.  Everybody for ten miles breathes in the acrid fumes.

Here in Crete, this is all normal.  The Greek government is fucked, and he loves to burn tires.  And the homosexuality.  Everybody from the USA is a homosexual.  Sometimes, when my father is screaming at the TV, he is so focused on that element of things that he can hardly debate the presenter about the Greek government and how fucked they are. When there's an argument in the Greek parliament, whoever loses, my dad and his friends go rape the guy.  Just constantly, they're forming a gang to go rape the politicians in the parliament and the Greek government is fucked.  

He gets so fucking drunk drinking the American whiskey that he hates and then he makes sausages.  Over and over.  More sausages.  Raccoon sausage.  Vulture sausage.  Any scavenger that he can find.  It's fucking disgusting and the color and smell of it as it cooks makes me throw up.  The texture is sandy, and grainy, and the meat is oily with brown and black spots probably from disease.  He eats it every day and is fine of course, and he slugs whiskey and pounds his fist on the table while he screams at the fucking Greeks and their shithole country.  

Anyway, I'm writing this story because he died last week.  The old codger finally kicked.  He was 100 years old.  I thought for sure all the whiskey and raping and yelling and vile sausages would have killed him sooner.  I found a minotaur outfit in his stuff while I was cleaning out his house.  Surprisingly nice piece of kit for such a miserly old fuck.  If you want it, come by the house and you can have it. Follow the burning tires, it's just up the hill.