“Wow, dad. Literally, not even five minutes ago. We
established no singing.” I said, outrightly pointing to the post-it note pasted
on top of the radio dial.
“Come on Juvia, don’t you wanna jam with your old
man?” He asked jokingly, hitting the horn to the beat of the song.
“Dad, that’s an excellent way to get shot.” I informed,
watching the other drivers get mildly aggravated by my dad’s horn abuse.
“Aw, you’re not gettin’ it. You see, I’m just trying to get
it on like all the young kids nowadays-“
“Jesus Christ, dad, I thought I could get at least another
good year out of you before you turned into one of those dads.” I
snarled, turning up the radio to tune out his tone-deaf antics.
“Well if you’re going to be rude about it, I guess I have no
choice but to turn to Rush.” My dad threatened, cranking the radio up to
an ungodly number and probably deafening several forest animals in the process.
Rush was my dad’s signature old man band, he pretty much
bought all their merch, watched all their movies, rage listened to every CD,
he’d even seen them in concerts a few times.