My dad had a lot of jobs in his life. He loved telling his kids, his kids’ friends, his kids’ freinds’ parents, people that he met on the bus or at the diner all about his jobs.

The joke was that when they got to the moon Buzz Aldren found a rock that had my dad’s initials on it. Even though he’s one of the guys that created the set where the moon-landing was faked.

Yeah. Most of these were lies, but you know what? Who cares? CERTAINLY not my dad. I mean, even if he were still alive that is. He didn’t give half a shit if you believed him or not. Even if you called him on it!

One of the most (in)famous was his short-lived career as a fighter pilot in the British Royal Air Force.

You see, my dad wasn’t allowed to serve his country in WW2. He had an injury that destroyed his pancreas and caused him to develop diabetes. And they didn’t allow diabetics to fly because they’ll pass out.

So dad stowed away on a cargo ship bound for England by way of Africa. And when he got there he signed on with the British Royal Air-force as an American volunteer.

This peeved off my grandparents. The son they LIKED was across the ocean, getting ready to fight in a war and they’re stuck with my uncle who nobody likes!

So Grandma books a commercial flight to England, walks up to the Air-Martial and has him bring her son to her. Where she beats his ass in front of all the trainee pilots. And takes his ass back home.

My dad would tell this story in full confidence even though almost anyone (except for my retarded cousin Larry) would instantly know that even in WW2 the British RAF wouldn’t take a 10 year old boy as a fighter pilot, especially if he was a diabetic from an injury he hadn’t even received yet.

Also there were no commercial transatlantic flights during WW2, the largest air-war EVER.

But none of that matters. Because we all believed it. Even though we KNEW it wasn’t true.