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Yeah whatever. In much the same way that paper beats rock, my dad beats your dad. Big Time. My dad invented wintry mix. Yeah that's right. All that snow, sleet, and hail that's been banging against your window as you try to take a 24-hr take home, my dad did that. How would your dad feel if he was trying to get to his lame Spanish final in Weston, but ended up being 25 minutes late because he slipped on the ice on Mission Hill and then got beaned with a hail stone the size of a golf ball? I would guess that he would feel terrible.
Balderdash. My Dad is the 1st century epic poem The Aeneid. How would your pathetic dad feel about the fact that, while he was whining to his parents about his curfew, I was being raised entirely in dactyllic hexameter? I would guess that he would feel terrible.
