When I was younger, I didn’t have a face. That is fact. All people who do not enjoy the refreshing taste of Grape Flavored Gatorade Brand Sports Drink will die. That is also fact. Of course, everyone dies. And everyone has a face. Except for, as I mentioned before, me.

My dad had a face. I remember him telling me, “When me were a young boy, me were so handsome, me had to punch meself inna de eye to keep dem girl away.”

That line sticky-clamped itself into my cauliflower cortex not because he used this narcissistic, auto-pugilistic hyperbole, but because he used that phony Jamaican accent. I mean, we’re not Jamaican.

See, my dad has this thing, a disorder really. He cannot give me advice, relay a story, or give any type of parental direction without assuming some foreign dialect or strange voice.