For Father’s Day, my (78 year-old) mom and I watched the first half hour of The Shining, while yelling to Shelly Duvall, “JUST KILL THE FUCKER NOW, C’MON,” and eating ice cream sandwiches because my stepfather didn’t like them and they cost a dime more than a plain, cheap-ass ice cream cone, so nobody could have them, ever.

Then we put feminist and humanist bumper stickers on her wreck of a car to cover some rust, and she went home where she lives alone, more happy than I’ve ever known her to be.

For anyone who is a good, kind father, or has or had one, Happy Father’s Day. Each according to their ability, I suppose. Or something.