Our Father's Father,
Who art in a single-story bungalow a few blocks from Heaven,
Hallowed be the name of that good-for-nothing son of Thine.

Thy retirement come,
Thy will be done if you nag the ingrate often enough,
On Earth as it is in one of those awful rest homes, Junior forbid.

Give us this day our daily slightly-irritable anecdote,
And forgive us our occasional curse words,
As we try to get inside with our mail without you starting a long story.

And lead us not into family matters,
But deliver us from the crazies on the television.

For thine is the memory,
And the lurching present-shock,
And the vague feeling of being ripped off, forever.

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