Dear Matias,
We were just playing, dude! Why do you need to do that to me? We were doing the airplane thing, then I sat you on my chest and all of a sudden the room turns foggy, my skin turns blue and I start wondering where all the oxygen went.
Seriously, guy, if this relationship is going to go somewhere, we need to establish some ground rules, like, “no choking the daylights out of one’s father.” I mean, I tonka-trucked you out of my chest, went to sit up and I got “the bends.”
Yes, your father’s a weenie, we have already covered that in the now legendary Rocinante incident, but there’s no need to rub it in. Besides, you’ll probably be beating me at arm wrestling by, oh, I don’t know, September?
In my currently physical shape (yes, round is a shape)I am in no position to recommend you diet. But I dunno, maybe mixing in a little Slim Fast with the strained peas might help you. I know it would help me stay, if not healthy, at least conscious longer next time we play.
I know this letter pretty much puts the kibosh in any future “my dad can beat up your dad” bragging you were hoping to do in kindergarten, but remember that not all is lost. At the very least, at this rate, you will probably be able to tell them that your dad could turn blue faster, go without oxygen longer and say “Honey, can you help me up?” in not one but two languages. Beat that, kids!
Love always to the awesome CMM,
Dad.
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