exiting dreamland

I awoke to a persistent knocking on my front door. I thought about ignoring it, but something told me it would be my dad. I was correct, as it turns out, and he had some homemade beef stew, chocolate cheesecake and some Valentine’s gifts for me. They don’t get much more thoughtful or sweeter than my dad.
He calls himself the Rube – a Missouri-specific redneck, I guess. "The Rube checks in." "What, no new blog entries? No sharp retorts about Conye O’Brian, no calls to an old Rube, from my favorite reporter, no visits to eat beef stew and chococheesecake?"
That last was an e-mail he sent me at 6:26 a.m. today.
Did you know that the Conan O’Brien/Jay Leno hubbub actually started about eight years ago? Yep. Picture it: Summertime at Pomme de Terre Lake, and dad and I are arguing about who is better, Conan or Jay, or debating which one is more ridiculous.
Then, my father starts telling our relatives that Conan O’Brien is secretly gay, and his wife is his beard. My relatives all buy it, because they fall for my dad’s fake deadpan. I’m laughing and telling them he’s lying, and they still don’t believe me!
So, I go straight for the jugular. In my equally convincing deadpan, I tell everyone, around the campfire, that it just came out that John Wayne was a secret cross-dresser. Yeah, he died wearing lacey pink panties.
They fall for it.
Meanwhile, my dad and I are having the best time fibbing to people and trying to burn each other good.
He continues to tease me that Conan is gay. He calls him Cognac or CoNAN – as in the barbarian, but all with a limp wave of his hand and the other hand on his hip. I continue to refer to Jay’s monologue as his monotone and I call him Gay Leno.
The Rube pretends to find Conan lame, but I’ve caught him snickering at some of Conan’s jokes. Don’t let him fool you, folks.

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