... a word of introduction ... and warning ...

...

This is the story of the day that cooties ate my father.

Webster's English Dictionary defines "cooties" as "a fictional malady, horrid little children use to isolate the less popular amongst their herd, in the interests of crushing the delicate sensibilities of these more sensitive children before they have a chance to grow into their future betters."

Now Idunno what the heck most of that means, but obviously this Webster dude has never had the misfortune of meeting a real cootie in his annoyingly blissful lifetime, because his definition is dead wrong. Cooties are anything but fictional. I know. I saw my father torn limb from limb from them. So I of all people know that cooties are QUITE real.

Be warned this is not... absolutely NOT a tale for the faint of heart. Over the course this absolutely one hundred and ten percent true story, Cooties WILL eat my father. And it won't be like in Little Red Riding Hood where the lumberjack comes along at the end, and chops the Cootie's stomach open, and out fall Little Red Riding Hood and Gramma and my Dad fully intact and unharmed. There will be BLOOD and GUTS everywhere! And nothing on earth will be able to put my father back together, and bring him back to me ever again.

And by the time this story ends I will have sacrificed my own life to save all of you.

So no... this tale is not... for the faint of heart. This tale is about Cooties. And Cooties.... are no fucking joke my friend.

Don't believe me? Wait and see.

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