My father, singing along loudly to a song in the car after breakfast:
“You’re a bitch, baby!” Beat. “Oh, he’s saying ‘You’re a fake, baby.’ Well I’m updating the lyrics. I’m making it current for today. ‘You’re a bitch, baby!’ You hear that Minnesota beat in the background? This is some good stuff!”
Five minutes later.
“Yyyyeeeaaahhh!” He claps his hands, yells out again, and starts funk dancing in his seat. “This is how I danced with all the ladies!”
It’s good to be home.
