Oh, Father, you're such a fucking douche.

First you tell me I have to turn off the garage door ... that switch doesn't turn off the fucking door, dumbass, it turns off the garage opener light.

And then you get all mad at me for calling the IRS because, as you said, like it's one of your fucking goddamn rules, a business should never talk to the IRS. What did you expect? You ask me some weird fucking question about who the tax form things are being sent to, your name or the LLC's, like it fucking matters (and I say that I know what you're talking about, even though I don't, because I don't want to get into a goddamn fight with you over this bullshit). The Secretary of State and the Department of Taxation both told me to call the IRS, so I call the IRS! What do you expect?!?!?! You ask me to do something, I do it, and you get mad?!?!?! You are so full of shit I'm shocked it's not coming out of your ears! Really, like they give a shit about your fucking businesses, you paranoid fuckhead.

And goddamn you for giving me that disgusted look again after I follow your orders not to call the IRS again. How I want to smack the shit out of you when look at me like that. GODDAMN YOU!!!

And then when I tell you I'm leaving to drink coffee, you tell me, "Well, go then!" Seriously, are you not able to talk and act like a grown-up and not a whiny little bitch? I'm stopped demaning that you be a father; I know you can't do that. Talk like an ordinary man, please? Pretty please? Fuck it, you probably won't do that, either. Just don't ever fuckin' ask me why you won't talk nicely to me. It's fucking because I learned it when talking to you, Pop.

I wonder what would happen if I said I wanted to beat the shit out of My Fucking Father. Will anyone read my blog then?