This Be the Post

"Well honey...I'm gonna have a fling.  It's what you get for spending so much time with that hoe."

My mother goes outside cackling with glee and flings broccoli at the bushes beyond the walls.  She just found out yesterday that my father used a hoe, and not his bare hands, to uproot all the thistle bushes on our parcel of land, and she is mock-angry.

My father sits placidly with his laptop on his chest, fuming at the wind, which is making everyone a little crazier than usual.

This is my family.  I do not know how else to explain them.

Except maybe with this interaction--
My mother, at the kitchen table, listening to a rap song called "The Dusty Foot Philosopher" that she has recently taken a shine to, seems to be whispering rapidly to herself over coffee--not entirely unusual, except that what she seems to be saying is gibberish.  My father looks at her.  
"Are you practicing the Iranian President's name?" he says.
"Yes," she tells him matter-of-factly.