I'll also assume that since you're here you've Googled my name. Hey, before we get to that, is your homework done? Then what the hell are you doing messing around online?! I assume we've already had this discussion and hence, I do not want to have it again. Do you want me to take away your cell phone(s), provided such things still exist when you're reading this and doctors haven't just started implanting communication chips into children's brains at birth? Don't roll your eyes at me young lady/ladies/man/men. Don't think you won't be spanked, if I'm still alive and you're not yet at an age where it would be peculiar to do so. Go to your room.No, wait. I'm sorry. Come back here, kiddo(s). Have a seat. I'm glad you're here. There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about and, as with most aspects of parenting, it's much easier to let a machine do the legwork rather than address it with you directly.
OK, so you've Googled me. Listen, I want to be straight with you about this so you understand what daddy was doing when he wrote the things you may have come across in your searches. So here goes.
You've probably noticed some vulgarity and other words used that I've forbidden you from using yourself. You've also probably found reference to topics that I've deemed unsuitable for discussion at the dinner table or elsewhere. Now before you label me a hypocrite, I think it's important that I be totally honest and forthcoming with you. A frank and open discussion is what this all about. I think you can handle it.
I want you to know that each of those words was carefully chosen for a very specific reason. And that reason is that I worked on behalf of the U.S. government, sending confidential coded messages to intelligence forces around the world who were out there defending our freedom against those who wished to destroy it. (Get home safe, guys!) Mom was involved, too. That scar on her cheek she always said was from a dog bite? Uh-uh. Knife fight, Chechen rebels, Moscow subway tunnel. She got out. The rebels ... *puts on sunglasses* ... missed their stop.
As far as my role, it was simple, really. In a typical post, every third letter of every seventh word corresponded with that letter's position in the alphabet. Those numbers communicated a set of global coordinates for a rendezvous point where an agent would find his or her horse for that mission. Attached to the saddle would be directions to a safe. The horse would then be blindfolded (can't take any chances) and the two would ride under cover of darkness to their destination. Upon arrival, the agent would open the safe by using another code, this one made up of the last letter of the last word of every sentence in the post with an odd number of words.
Once inside the safe, agents would find the basics for each mission: a dossier containing a detailed profile of his or her target(s) as well as the standard issue laser watch, ninja throwing star belt buckle, cyanide pill cuff links, fake mustaches and Tide-to-Go stain removal pen.
At that point, the horse was shot (again, can't take any chances) and my knowledge of the mission objectives ended.
Ah, it feels good to finally be honest with you. You see, don't you feel silly for thinking ill of your old man now? This was all for the good of the country, and to protect your future. Of course, in an ironic twist, now that you know all of this, you'll have to be killed.
Let this be a lesson to you. Never question your father under any circumstances. But I'm still glad we had this talk, kiddo(s). Hey, who wants ice cream for their last meal?
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