Kyle, Sarah, and I are heading to Vegas in December for a very short visit to watch the live finale of the The Ultimate Fighter TV show. This trip led to an email thread in which we were discussing plans. Here's how that thread went.
Me: I am fine with one room; we just need to get one with three beds, and you need earplugs to survive my snoring.
Kyle: And air freshener for all the farting.
Me: That's both yours and mine. No fair blaming me alone. Oh, and the belching. And the stench from the sweaty midget strippers. They may be small, but their aroma is powerful.
Sarah: This is horrible.
Kyle: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Except for the sticky residue. That comes home with you.
Sarah: Kyle's actual text to me: "It is possible that your presence would remind your dad that he has familial responsibilities, and shouldn't indulge in the quantities of hookers and blow that are his usual wont...It's all I can do to help him limp back to the hotel room, pay some midget strippers to towel him off, and put him to bed." :*(
Me: Those little rascals are whizzes with the towels.
I apologize now to little people anywhere. Though I meant no offense, my use of the term "midget" was wrong. It just read right in the moment of that early message, and then it stuck.
I think this thread proves conclusively that Kyle is a very sick man, I am a very bad father, and, most of all, that it is not easy being my daughter.