MY FATHER: If you have a few minutes, maybe we could look at my iPad. . . .
ME: Oh, god.
MY FATHER: Now, why are you acting like that?
ME: I’m not acting like anything . . . yet. What’s the matter with your iPad?
MY FATHER: Earlier this week I was trying to purchase some very important media items and the iPad would not accept my password. . . .
ME: . . . Because you were typing it wrong.
MY FATHER: I was not typing it wrong. I must have typed it twenty times.
ME: Incorrectly.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: You realize I’ve actually witnessed you stab your stubby fingers at the iPad before.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: Give me your iPad. Okay. I’m signing into the Apple Store. What’s your password?
MY FATHER: I’ll have to go to the kitchen to see. [He gets to his feet, stumbles into the kitchen, peers at a piece of paper taped to a cabinet door.] It’s . . . um . . . gawrsh. This writing is so small. . . .
ME: Isn’t it your writing?
MY FATHER: Yes, but. . . . gawrsh, but this is small.
ME: I mean, if it’s your list, don’t you have the option to write it as large as you want?
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. All right. My password is . . . capital M, a, d, d, o, x, 1, 7, 7, 4. . . .
ME: Okay, thank. . . .
MY FATHER: Capital M again, a, t, t. . . .
ME: Hold up, hold up.
MY FATHER: . . . a, p, o, n, i.
ME: Jesus. Could this password be any longer?
MY FATHER: 3, 3, 2.
ME: Is that it? No pi to the hundredth decimal or anything?
MY FATHER: Pi? To the hundredth decimal? What are you talking about?
ME: Never mind. I typed in your lengthy password and the store seemed to take it.
MY FATHER: It couldn’t have.
ME: Well, it did. What movie were you trying to purchase?
MY FATHER: Um. I don’t remember?
ME: The only way I can really make sure it worked is to see if it will let me purchase something. So what movie. . . .
MY FATHER: I don’t recall.
ME: How can you not recall? You said you were trying to buy something just earlier this week.
MY FATHER: The title eludes me.
ME: Wait. Was this something, you know . . . personal?
MY FATHER: What do you mean by personal?
ME: Porn. I mean porn. Was it porn?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: It was porn, wasn’t it. Porn’s fine. You’re a big boy. You can buy porn.
MY FATHER [flustered]: Gawrsh, it wasn’t porn! I wasn’t buying porn! Stop saying porn! Buy Army Wives.
ME: I bet it was p. . . .
MY FATHER [loudly]: Just buy the first episode of Army Wives.
ME: Uh-huh. Let’s just. . . . All right. The first episode of Army Wives is downloading onto your iPad. You were typing your password wrong.
MY FATHER: I wasn’t typing my password wrong.
ME: You were typing your password wrong. It’s like, three hundred characters long. You typed it . . .
MY FATHER: I didn’t type my password wrong.
ME: . . . wrong. You realize there’s no other explanation, right? I didn’t do anything except type in your password and hit the purchase button. You need to be more careful when you’re tapping the screen.
MY FATHER: I did not . . . you’re in error, but all right. Now I’m going to want you to figure out what’s happening with my magazine app. When I try to log in. . . .
ME [under my breath]: I bet you’re typing the password wrong.
MY FATHER: . . . I can hear you.
ME: All right. Your magazine app is asking for—guess what?—your password.
MY FATHER [lumbering up]: I have to go to the kitchen.
ME: Of course. I’ll wait.
MY FATHER [from afar]: Gawrsh, this writing is small.
ME: Mmm-hmmm.
MY FATHER: All right. Capital A, m, o, s, and . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. A, m, o, s, and.
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. And, like an and.
ME: Whuh? And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And what?
MY FATHER: A-m-o-s-and-a-n-d. . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: I honestly think my brain is about to melt.
MY FATHER: When I say and, I mean ampersand.
ME: At this point I no longer remember what an ampersand is.
MY FATHER: It’s an and.
ME: I wish I drank.
MY FATHER: The password is supposed to be Amos and Andy, with an ampersand between the names.
ME: Oh my god. Why didn’t you just say that?
MY FATHER: I did, several times, but you. . . .
ME [loudly]: Capital A-m-o-s-AMPERSAND-a-n-d-y.
MY FATHER: 1-9-2-2.
ME: Of course there’s more. 1-9-2-2.
MY FATHER: Capital B-l-y-t-h-e. . . .
ME: Christ.
MY FATHER: Exclamation point.
ME: Anything else? Couple of hexadecimal strings or a smattering of old zip codes or something?
MY FATHER: That’s it. Now, if you tell me. . . .
ME: There. Opened your magazine app.
MY FATHER: But how could you. . . .
ME: You were typing your password wrong. I know you don’t want to believe it, and I’m sorry to say it, but you were. When one types your password correctly, as I did, the app magically opens.
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. I don’t understand.
ME: I understand. You pick the most tortuous passwords and store them in tiny handwriting in an adjacent room, and then you make mistakes with them. Stop protesting your innocence and just enjoy your porn.
MY FATHER: ARMY WIVES.
ME: Army Wives still kind of sounds like porn.
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