I want to write a book called, “Son, I’m dying,” where I visualize the day my estranged dad calls me out of the blue to tell me he is dying, and in as many ways as possible I’ll offer up various responses to that.

“My asshole smells like burnt firewood, and I’ve got firemen calling me. But I w…”

“A brick could be dropped on your mother-in-law’s head from the height of 66.6 f…”

“She was a tall drink of water, and I was a glass half full kind of guy—half ful…”

“Love is a tomato. And while it's true that I can live without a tomato, I could…”