My father and I were discussing mundane things, like home and car maintenance, when he had an idea.
My Dad (I wanted to say My Father, but realized that would be wrought with complications once I began abbreviating it. Also, I couldn’t go with The Father for equally obvious but more holy reasons.): You know what? I’m going to have my car detailed next year.
Me: That’s a great idea.
MD: I’ll have it pimped out. I’ll be a 70-year-old pimp.
I appraised him and shook my head.
Me: You’re going to need to get a new wardrobe.
MD: Why? What’s wrong with this?
Me: Pimps don’t wear work clothes, like they’re about to clean out their gutters.
MD: They do if they’re broke.