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My dad. He's irregular, but not in a fiber way. You see, he's not like a TV dad-TV dads don't go nutes when you sneeze while they're sleeping or break your toys when you accidentally open a window. TV dads make sense. For example, Dad would always make me bring him a beer. Even when I was really young. He'd say, "Get me another." And I would run inside and grab one, but I would go around to the driveway and grab a handful of dirt and pour it into the bottle. I would then run back into the house and out the front door to where he was sunbathing. Then I'd watch from the kitchen window as he'd spit up the dirty beer all over his hairy chest. But I didn't laugh-I just watched. And he would scream and swear. Even after he would spank me, I would still keep doing it. He kept asking me to get him another when he knew I was going to put dirt in it. And I knew he was going to spank me for putting dirt in it, but I'd still do it. That was our relationship. But one morning while eating breakfast, I dropped, a spoon on the floor when my aunts were over and he got really embarasse. He grabbed my hair and held me over stairway. But as he was about to drop me, there was a whistle or quak. And there, behind him was a ninja. The ninjas anger was huge, boiling. Nobody wished they were my dad that day, because what happened next is untellable: He grabbed my dad and tied all of his limbs in knots and made him eat four pure peanut butter sandwiches in a row. Then dad started screaming like a fat dog. It was electrifying.