Truth is Stranger than Fiction

EDIT: This blog used to be called "Da Troot", for those who were wondering where "Da Troot" went. Also, even though some of these earlier posts are "rough draft", I've left them "as is" so you can (hopefully) see my style and skills change over time. Enjoy! - T.D.

Or as my father would say, "da troot" is stranger. See, dad was born in Hungary in '44 and he escaped in '56 (that's quite a story), so he ended up in Austria, Belgium, Quebec and finally Ontario, Canada. Because of this, he speaks English with a totally unique accent. "Three" sounds like "tree", wine" sounds like "vine" and "grape" sounds like "mimpy". (there's a story behind that too.)

About this blog: Imagine a large Hungarian man wearing a plastic Fortino's grocery bag babushka (euro do-rag) and dark blue coveralls, coated from eyebrows to boots in non water-soluble white exterior paint, looking like some demonic Roman Polanski interpretation of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man, shouting "Whoa Crap!". If that's high comedy to you, this is your kind of blog. If not, you might want to try a different blog. Dusty Scott's "Pork Tornado" at http://salamitsunami.com/ makes me howl. I highly recommend it.

Of course, this blog won't be all about my dad. I'm just giving you an idea of the style and tone I'll be using, and the type of content I'll be sharing. I'll be sure to embarrass as many of my friends and family members as I possibly can, not just dad. (Even though he is a fountain of terrific material)

Let me make one thing very clear. This blog is dedicated to the idea that truth is by far stranger (and funnier) than fiction, so every story I relate here will be true. Or at least as true as I can remember it. If you want to argue that truth is subjective or call me out because my memory is faulty or even call me a liar, go ahead. It doesn't really matter whether you believe me or not, as long as you enjoy the ride.

While we're on the subject of dad and his bizarre accent, let me tell you about an incident that took place long before I was born.

Dad was living in Montreal, going to school at Ecole Polytechnic and one break he wandered into a lunch counter type place and tried to order a drink. He asked for a "Zoop". The server looked at my dad like he said he'd just seen two Jehovah's Witnesses trying to place The Watchtower at a strip club. (there's a story behind that too, but that's for another day.) So my dad tried again, asking for a bottle of "Zoop". The poor server was lost and told my dad he'd never heard of such a thing. My dad marched over and pointed to the huge green and white sign and said triumphantly, "Zoop!"

The sign said "7-Up".



Tomorrow: "Do You Have Poop in Your Bed?" or "Why I'd be happy to be able to vent my bowels half as powerfully as my 97-year old grandfather, who is by the way, a Nazi."



P.S. Ok, so here's how the paint thing happened. Dad decided to paint the soffits. (that's the underside of the roof behind the eavestrough for those who were wondering.) He didn't want to get paint in his hair, hence the fancy Fortino's babushka covering his head. (EDIT: Someone has informed me that "Babushka" means grandmother and "Kokoshnik" is the word I'm looking for here. Thanks Matrix!) The ladder he was using had a convenient little platform partway up for holding tools and such, and he figured this would be a perfect place to keep the paintcan, so he wouldn't have to go back down the ladder to get more paint on his roller. So far so good.

Of course, the first time he moved the ladder he left the paintcan on the platform above his head.

Gravity one, Dad zero.

"Whoa Crap!"
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