Mind Games

No son of Ernie’s was gonna sit around the house all day, eating his food, keeping a slovenly room, and puttering around on the internet day and night after night.


Ernie had retired from 26 years in the Army Corps of Engineers, and his son wasn’t even able to tolerate a 4-year hitch in his father’s footsteps.


Worse, Ernie Junior—disgustedly addressed as “Dipshit” by his dad around the house—was constantly disrespectful to his mother, and lipped-off to Senior at every opportunity, usually answering him in gibberish or riddles, making the elder Mr. Staller believe his son was likely using drugs.


In a heated argument, yesterday, Senior had reached his limit, yelling, “You’re mother’s the only thing that keeps me from kicking your sorry ass from here to Kingdom-come and out into the street, you peckerhead, and these mind games are gonna come to a screeching halt!” eliciting the reply of his son’s middle finger.

Two days later, after their cook-out on the 4th of July, Junior yelled for his dad to join him in the back yard to light some fireworks, and the screen door swung open as Senior said, “Why not!” popping the top on his 8th can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

As Ernie Senior strode across the lawn, he was blown to bits and the beer can sky-high by a buried, improvised explosive device of Junior’s making, to the howls of hideous laughter and Junior’s farewell message yelled from his crouched vantage behind the massive barbecue, “Mined games, asshole, it’s all in the mine.”