This Is Spring Rolling Down Hill

(My father, over the years, has taken the eating habits of a pig. I mean the like of always having some food fall on his shirt, making it a race by pushing one bite down by taking the next, open mouth, loud noises so you can actually hear him chew, slurp, smack, and all from one end to the other of the house, and so on. It’s useless to ask him to stop; he says he doesn’t hear anything or just doesn’t know how and that it’s no big deal. It drives me crazy and makes me sick. This one time took the cake. We are having Vietnamese spring rolls for dinner in a build-your-own way; all the ingredients are on the table and you just take what you want. Some items are sticky and have a spoon to serve yourself with, while others you can use your hand as long as you take what you touch. As usual, my father decides the rules don’t apply to him, so he goes in without using the spoon. He can’t just wipe the sticky sauce on a napkin or go wash in the sink. Instead, he proceeds to stick each finger in his mouth, one at a time, all the way to the base, and suck it clean, with the usual noises. Then, with his hand all wet with saliva, he moves to reach into the next dish like nothing happened. Totally grossed out, I stop him.)

Me: “Dad! No!”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “No, you just covered your fingers in saliva; don’t put it back in our common food. Go wash it first.”

Dad: “Hmpf. If you insist.”

(He does wash, but he decides to be as loud as he can since he did not like me calling him out. Since he eats super fast, he’s done first. The problem is, he has to throw his napkin and some bits that fell on him from the meal in the trash can, which is behind him. So, here we are, and he — unnecessarily — bends all the way in half, placing his butt right at the table level, almost leaning on the table, and… yes, he farts. A big, long, stinky one. On the table. Again, grossed out, I call him out on it.)

Me: “Dad! Come on! Farting at the table is bad enough, but farting on the table is disgusting and totally excessive.”

Dad: “Oh, I did? I didn’t notice.”

(He never even attempted to say sorry.)