My Father, The Evil Genius

Well, it's getting to be that time of year. 

     Fall. 

     Called that because of how leaves fall from the trees.

     That reminds me of a naughty joke.

     An old man is raking leaves with his grandson when they see an earthworm crawling out of its hole. 

     "I bet you five dollars you can't put that worm back into its hole," the grandfather says. 

     The boy thinks about it, then run into the house and comes back with a can of hair spray. He sprays the worm until it's as stiff as a nail and, sure enough, sticks the worm back into its hole. 

     "Well, I'll be darned," the old man says and pays the boy five dollars. 

     He takes the can of hair spray. 

     "I'll be back," he says, and goes into the house. 

     Thirty minutes late he comes back and hands the little boy another five dollars. 

     "That's from your grandmother," he says. 

     Personally, I like the way my yard looks when it's blanketed with leaves. There's something comforting about it. 

     My wife? 

     Not so much. 

     I'm not saying she's a control freak, but she's constantly showing me the right way to clean things. Her first rule about cleaning is there has to be a second rule so it will look neat.

     I like to tell her I have OCD, but, since I'm also lazy, it balances out enough for me to spend my retirement watching tv. Believe me, it's no fun when my OCD kicks in and I go from mentally undressing the pretty actresses on the television screen to folding their clothes. 

     The way I'm comforted by the look of fall, my wife is comforted by having a place for everything and having everything in its place. Leaves should either be green and clinging to the branches of a tree or in black plastic bags on the way to the dump. If dead leaves were money, I'd be raking it in.

     Last year, my father was sitting in the backyard patio enjoying a cup of coffee. He was watching me raking up the fallen leaves, bagging them, and tossing those bags into the bed of my pickup truck. He was laughing and shaking his head. 

     "What's so funny, pop?" I asked him. 

     "I sure like watching you work," he answered, taking a sip. "Why don't you just wait until they all fall from the tree and rake them up then?" 

     He was trying to be helpful, but it was the kind of help that would end up with my wife not letting me borrow her hair spray later that night, if you get my drift. 

     "You know my wife likes a clean yard," I told him. 

     "You need to work smarter, not harder, son," he advised. "You know what you should do?"

     "Not really, but I'm sure you'll tell me anyway," I thought to myself, but what I said was, "What?" 

     "Don't bother bagging them. Just fill up the back of your truck and drive around until they're all gone." 

     Who knew my father was an evil genius?