*boo hoo*

This is the desperate flailing of someone too old to be calling themselves an 'orphan.'
I thought I might've been able to establish some kind of twisted, postmortem bond with my recently deceased father by working the stuff of the almighty written word.
Self-deceiving fool that I am...
The not so old, Old Man, denied the squirming things of the field a wicked feast by choosing immolation over the coffin. I mourn for that which died with that mean ol', uncompromising, tell it like it is, sonuvabitch. He was like The Riddler, if The Riddler was a tough-as-leather, gun-toting, 300yr old, interesting person. If ever I was off my game I would know it immediately because I couldn't understand a bit of what he was saying; bastard was so damn quick! He was never wrong, honest...
Now, each time an Islamic fundamentalist takes a bellyfull of shrapnel, along with his nearest and dearest fuck-face buddies, I shed a silent tear because Dad is dead. The death-toll has lost it's lustre. What's a death-toll without comedic relief?
From his archives, I've learned more about the man that I so vigorously avoided, and can only express regret that I didn't learn his language whilst yet he lived. Fuck.