Jon Fain

My dad, with the medically confirmed shrunken brain, calls about a “tooth distraction.” He no longer drives, and my mother stopped in ‘92, so getting him to the appointment falls to me. On the way, he complains about my motor vehicle skills, farting at every red light. He’s always been a drinker, and besides deflating his thoughts, the booze has mangled his innards so that he regularly plays suites in the key of ass.