WHY OUR DAD IS BETTER THAN YOUR DAD . . .

Leaving the wedding last night was a whole drama unto itself, thus deserving of its own entry. The newly-marrieds had arranged with a local parking garage to give us free parking, provided we obtained a special pink ticket from the reception hall. The reception hall ran out of special pink tickets, so they started stamping the backs of guests' parking tickets instead. This proved to be a source of major agita for many people.

As we -- and many other departing guests -- enter the parking garage, the garage employee leaves with a promise to return in two minutes. We descend into the bowels of the garage to discover that the gate had been lowered; we couldn't get to our cars, or even the comfy waiting area, until the employee returned. So, Brother and I lean against the railing and settle in to wait. We deconstruct the evening, make small talk with our parents' friends, and occasionally crane our necks towards the entrance to see if the employee is appearing. The crowd behind us increases. Annoyingly, so does the disgruntlement and vocal volume. Normally, I too would be annoyed. After all, who wants to wait around in high heels to pick up her car at 11:00 on a Sunday night, facing an hour-long drive home? But this evening, it is apparent that the employee is alone. It is clear he had to leave the premises for some important reason, and it is clear that he'll be back soon, given the number of people he saw waiting when he left. Well, I guess it was only clear to Brother and I -- we are sympathetic.

Things go from bad to worse when the employee returns, and the crowd gets rowdy. I don't care who you are (or who you think you are) -- there's just no need to be rude for the sake of hearing your own voice.

It is completely unnecessary for Mr. Squeaky-Mouse Man to start yelling at the top of his lungs, "What is going ON here?! What is the MEANING of this?! This is RIDICULOUS!! Just RIDICULOUS!!" You're five feet tall and wimpy. Even your wife looks like she hates you. You've only been waiting for 45 seconds, so shut your trap -- you have no standing to complain. And don't drink alcohol if you can't control yourself afterwards.

It is just plain idiotic of Mr. Bald-With-A-Ponytail-and-Large-Hairy-Mole-in-Middle-of-Forehead to declare -- three times, "I have a driver who chauffeurs me around in a $200,000 luxury car. I don't NEED this right now." Well, you should have had your driver DRIVE you then, huh?!

Then we discover that while special pink ticket holders really do get free parking, those with stamped tickets only get half off and must pay $11. This, of course, touches off a round of "Do you know how LONG we've been waiting? We are NOT going to pay for such bad service!" Which is fine by the employee because if the customers don't pay, he isn't going to get their cars. The customers pay, but not without a nice round of Korean curses. It is just plain useless for the crowd to start grumbling loudly in Korean. As Brother observes "it probably all sounds like clucking chickens to him."

And then we notice Appa. Our dear, sweet, calm, level-headed (when he wants to be), mature, faithful, highly amused Appa. Standing away from the madding crowd, apart from Mr. Squeaky-Mouse Man and he of the hairy mole and $200,000-luxury-car-con-driver. Hands in his pockets, little belly jutting out, a knowing smirk on his face. Wryly observing the men throwing hissy fits, the wives rolling their eyes, the idiots fighting to hold onto their $11, the couples stomping to their cars and slamming the doors as they get in and speed away with scowls marring their drunken faces. Brother and I are filled with such love and GRATITUDE to Appa for being who he is -- the best dad and role model ever -- and who he is not -- a squeaky-voiced, arrogant, pompous, self-entitled ass who should not be procreating.

My car rolls up. Omma and Appa climb into the back, ready to fall asleep. I slip the guy a couple of bucks, Brother and I offer a slight smile and we drive away peacefully.