By the time we reached you on the porch, you were already three sheets to the wind with an umbrella pitched in your drink. You were stark naked, of course, with your starboard side reflecting the diffused rays of the sun through the rattan screen. It formed a small checker pattern across your Adam’s apple among other things. Your wayward folds and bemused liver spots failed to honor the wife you’ve had for over thirty years. My mother for one will never sleep normal again after seeing your onion form. It horrifies me to think she spent her Social Security check vacationing in the shadow of your fleshy paunch. You bear no resemblance to the man she once held close, my dear father. Now, please come inside to finish washing the dishes.