Because Dad Is Here.

My dad surprised me and came to visit last night, so today I am hanging out with him and making sure he doesn't scamper off and assassinate someone, as I'm sure that that's the real reason he's come to town... Anyway, because he's here, I don't exactly have time to sit down and write a real blog post, so I'm going to re-post the one where I introduced him in the first place, seeing as how many of you are new and this post is over a year old. I felt it was time for you all to reacquaint yourselves with the glory that is my father. The frightening, frightening glory... Anyway, without further ado, I bring you....

My Dad the Mafia Man

It's finally time... Meet my dad:


For multiple reasons, my friends and I are convinced that he is the head of the Swedish Mafia (yes, it totally could exist...). I know that when you think of mafia, you usually think of Russians, Italians, or Irishmen, but we live in Ohio's Suburbia... Swedish only makes sense. Of course, one would think that it would make more sense if we lived in Minnesota if we were leading the Swedish Mafia, but I was two when we moved to Ohio and had absolutely no say in that decision, so STOP ARGUING WITH ME.

Anyway, here is the list of reasons why we're convinced that my dad works for the totally real Swedish Mafia:

  • Whenever we ask my dad what he does for a living, this is his response:


  • For a really long time, he drove a black Chrysler 300...chrysler300


  • ...Until recently, when he decided that this would transport bodies more efficiently:lincolntruck


  • He goes to the "grocery store" like... 17 times a day. There's no reason to do that other than as a cover-up, people.
  • He travels A LOT and often without warning. Seriously, conversations with my mother will sometimes go like this:  Me: Where's Dad? Mom: Um... I don't know.... I think he's in Jersey... Or maybe Atlanta. Me: What? Didn't he just get home from Denmark? Mom: Yeah...
  • Whenever things seem like they'll never come together, my dad always says "Hey, don't worry. I'll take care of it." And when we ask "BUT HOW??" he just holds up his hand to silence us. Then he disappears for a few hours, and comes back with the solution. We seriously don't know what happens. Obviously, he's making some sort of a deal with some other guy to get things straightened out. I don't know who's fingers these outings cost him, but I have to find that guy and hug him... or at least give him a really nice hook.
  • He's taken to wearing a matching track suit around the house.
  • All deals with my dad are made over a drink. If it's a serious deal, he'll walk you through the proper procedures of how to seal the deal by taking a shot of Swedish alcohol with one hand while your other hand rests behind your back to keep you from reaching your weapon.
  • Oh, and let's not forget the booming Swedish accent...
  • ...or the 6'6" height and build.

When asking my dad if I could write about him in this way, this was the conversation we had via text:

Me: May I please write a blog post about you being in the mafia? ;) I'll be clear about the fact that it's "not true" so that you don't get targeted. :)

Dad: What mafia?

Me: Exactly ;)

Dad: :)