LITTLE FINGER INTELLEGENCE

My dad is a Type A personality.  Always has been.  And even though age mellows us all, he always will be.  He has said and done some funny things over the years.  He wouldn't think he was being funny or was even aware of the comedic material he has given me and my sisters.  When you are a Type A - choleric personality (I know I have some of it too) you think very quickly.  Sometimes my dad, having already known the answer to something and, virtually everything, would say - while holding up his pinkie finger, "Why, I have more intelligence in my little finger than they do in their whole body."  I don't know if it was purely to clearly state his role as Mufassa, King of the Mental Jungle as much as to point out that particular person was not smart at all (at least comparatively).  Whenever he said it growing up I would have a mixture of reactions; amazement that he would be so proud and arrogant and, irreverent laughter that was welling up in me.  Throughout my life I have used that gesture and statement in sarcastic fun with my sisters and good friends.  My dad's name is Walter but whenever I have told that story and pretty much any story of my dad to others, I refer to him as "Wally".  It just makes the story way more fun:)  My dad also has a disconnect between people who do not speak English and the volume of his voice when trying to converse with them.  Oh, I have witnessed my Dad's voice getting louder and louder and slower and slower as he attempts to bridge the language barrier.  I want to say, "They are not deaf, but merely speak another language!"  It's probably a good thing he never was an Ambassador or anything of the sorts.  He had a saying when I was growing up that was repeated more times than I actually can count or care to recall.  It went like this (and since my dad had been in non-active military duty he did it in cadence), "Good, better, best.  Never let it rest till the good is better and the better is best."  I hated that sing song sermon.  Still do:)  If you say it while holding up your pinkie finger it comes across as cocky ass arrogance and bondage.  My dad was also a strange mix of occasionally saying words funny, like - business was bid ness.  Even funnier since he was a bidness man all his life and of white Eastern European descent!!  And for the word gums (like in your mouth - pronounced with an uh in the middle), dad would invariable say GUMS (short u sound similar to moo)  My sisters and I would look at each other, smile and one by one leave the room to laugh!  He sings horrifically off key and loud (much like when he speaks to a foreigner).  He, in this arena, is keenly aware of his lack of singing ability.  He runs with it though just to be funny.  Church was a study in both laughter and punishment.  My dad would sing loudly, very loudly off key and look over at me and wink.  In the next moment though, if I was squirming or not paying attention he would reach his hand and flick me in the head with two fingers - his way of saying "Knock It Off!".   He loved Sen-Sens, the little black licorice  - can we say breath mints - and so church was a combination of giggling, intimidation, a weird smell of black licorice and, freshly polished shoes.  The anticipation of getting to church and the ride to church were, in and of itself, titillating - if I may say so:)  My dad was prompt and fast.  After he was dressed and ready and thought that everyone else should be too (there were 4 women sharing 1 bathroom), he proceeded to the car in the garage.  If we did not quickly emerge on his timetable, he would commence honking at intervals.  Once we had piled into the green Buick heading the 3 miles to church my father, with a glint in his eye (only one as he is legally blind in the other), would reach across the front seat and squeeze my mother's boob.  He would get this little devilish look on his face and accompanying the gesture would come the words, "honk, honk".   He would then grin with pride and look at us girls in the back seat where we were almost hypnotically trying to prepare for bad singing, being flicked in the head and the smell of Sen-Sens.  My mom would say "Sam!" - that was her pet name for him.  Come to think of it - it was a generic pet name because he too used to call her Sam.  My dad (& mom) fresh with the recent boob honking from the drive to church once drove home and left all three of us girls at church.  Of course we were all bawling.  Now that I am an adult I have two thoughts; 1) how do you forget 3 children you brought with you and, 2) sometimes you just need some alone time as a couple in the middle of the day on a Sunday:)   Wally wants to know whose bid ness is it anyway?