So I am off for Branson to visit my sister. This is your last chance to give me your address and get an official Branson post card.

What am I going to do in Branson, you ask? Well, my father, who was just there, offered these tips.

"You should, uh, go and see the, uh, Rockettes. It's a good show."

This is an attempt by my dad to un-gay me. He is concerned that when we are together I don't point out pretty girls and say things like, "Whoa, she's hot" or "That's the kind of girl I could take home to mom" or "Wow. I would love it if my penis and that girl's vagina could meet." Perhaps by throwing me in front of a line of 50 chicks whose only talent, as far as I know, is that they can kick really high in unison, would get us talking about the ladies. "So, dad. That one chick. Third from the right. She was smokin', eh?"

He also told me I should go see some magic show he saw. This was a chance for my dad to show me how smart he is. "Yeah, it was a good show. I could tell how he did most of the tricks. There were some that I wasn't sure about. Probably mirrors or shit like that." Watch out, magicians. My dad's got your number.

Finally, he said to me that I should check out the Andy Williams show. He asked me, "Do you remember him from when you were a kid?" Apparently my dad thinks I grew up sometime in the fifties. He also thinks I'm a huge Brooklyn Dodgers fan and Greta Garbo is the cat's meow.

So I guess I'll go see this show where he sings all these Christmas songs. All those jealous, raise your hands. Thought so.