Prohibited Weapons

I love my dad. He's got his faults, but I have mine (not that I am admitting any). There was a rather lengthy period during and after my parents' divorce during which I had nearly no contact with dad. Days of Oedipus, starring the pre-Soon Yee Woody Allen. I thought that over the last several years our relationship has been pretty good. We acknowledge our love for one another, are reasonably involved in one another's life, and all that human crap.

Now, however, I am concerned that dad is trying to kill me and my family, and to kill us with kindness.

After e was born, dad appeared to relish making and delivering food to us. He made stroganoffs, meatloaves, pork things, and my favourite, 'porcupines'. I don't know from where the recipe comes but, in essence, a porcupine is a spheroid of meat combined with rice, onions, spices, and grated carrot. Porcupines, once amassed, are then baked in a tomato-based fluid until cooked. They are then consumed by the grateful diner whop makes appropriate eat-grunts and masticatory noises.

Of late, however, the porcupines have not so much resembled the delicious meat-tribbles of yore, but have taken on the character of toxic meat grenades, outlawed by the UN for use in any arena. The last three times the little bombs have arrived, I have cut into them only to find that the now-cooled flesh-spheres are undercooked, near-raw. There was one unfortunate incident when the porcupines arrived, sat covered on the counter for a couple of hours, and then turned green, and smelly... so smelly. I didn't want to tell dad about the toxic meat-bombs at first, because he may have gotten a little sensitive, and after the second incident, I was kicking myself for not saying anything the first time.

So on Saturday, when he called and informed me he was baking some porcupines, I told him. I explained the last batch was underdone and we had to dispose of it. I explained he needed to 'cook the shit' out of the little guys. Maybe I could have put it differently, because he got a little, um, sensitive. He delayed his delivery, informing me he had to 'cook the shit' out of the porcupines. When he arrived the next day, it was with 'charcoal offerings'. While I felt badly for him I rejoiced: cooked porcupines!

That evening, I set about doling out the little bundles of meaty pleasure, when I noticed that, how can I say it, I was handling a vat of e-coli death balls in close proximity to my wee offspring! These porcupines weren't even half-cooked... they were practically on the hoof! I cut one open on the counter, just to be sure, then another, and another... all uncooked. It was then I concluded that pops might have it in for me. So what can I say?

In the cleaning process, I employed a 'citrus' scented antibacterial wipe. The brand in question produces wipes in a variety of unnecessary and inaccurately named scents, from 'green apple' to 'waterfall' (what the fuck is that?). The label touts: kills 99.9% of germs! I tell you now, I am very worried about the fearsome power of the 0.1%, so very afraid.

P-man out.