Driving Through Big Sur

From my Sunday road trip:

D. emails: Don’t talk about your dad, mate! Listen up and listen good, Sunny Jim. You may think you’ve analyzed your dear old dad, but I’m here to tell you that, like everything else in your bloody life, you’re well off the fair-dinkum rails. This might play with that mentally disturbed woman with whom you’re driving, but let me tell you both that, as a son, you’re a fair-dinkum disappointment. A bloody sinker! I would have straightened you out right quick if it hadn’t been for your stepmum. My impulse was always to stake you to a termite mound, shove a cane toad in your gob, and then give you a fair-dinkum wallop in the chin with a cricket bat. Perhaps if I had done that, you wouldn’t have turned out to be the mewling, self-pitying, goldbricking fraud that you so obviously are. One of these days, I’ll dig out your lungs with a fair-dinkum garden trowel, mate. Don’t think I won’t.