Just Call Me Stumpy

"You're hearing about the problems they're starting to have with 'bots in India?  The freeze?"

Dad waved his hand. 

"They're all Clevell," he said.  "Clevell produces turds.  Always has.  India, Russia, those 'bots come out of the box with problems galore."

"You could say that, but everyone pretty much uses the same processors, Dad.  What line is Nona?"

"She's a Brixton."

"That's going to be the same," I said.  "They all use the same chips." 

"It's a software issue."  Said like a network expert immune to the contradictory.  

"Even so.  Do you have bugware?  Do you run that?  Religiously?"

"We don't need it," said Dad.  "We're fine the way we are.  She talks to me.  I talk to her.  There doesn't need to be anyone else.  If we need to visit with anyone, we go see the Glicks.  They're down a block."

"Dad.  Nona is old.  If you're not running regular checks, I mean she could accidentally hurt you."

"We don't do so much anymore."

"She could tear your dick off, Ted," I said.  "How about that?  Want word of that to get to Mom?  She'd laugh so hard she'd shit herself."

Dad did this smile that hit his eyes.  Wrinkled him all up, made him look about 70.  He fought to get up out from the recliner and walk over to me. His moist end of the day feet adhered to the hardwood and popped like suction cups.  He hugged me.  Kissed the top of my head. 

"It's just so good to see you, Gil," he said.  "To know you care.  Hey, how about this?  Worse comes to worse, you can just call me Stumpy."