Mein Vater

My father is not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, nor the brightest bulb in the box, and he'll never be the sharpest knife in the draw. He's the kind of man who, after watching the ad with the cars bitching about their new more economical friend ("They would've fainted, but they were cars not people.") for the umpteenth time will declare "You know, that almost looks like a parody of Thomas the Tank Engine!" The kind of chap that will attempt to suck coffee through a Tim Tam, spill the substance all over his shirt, take said shirt off, and repeat the process only for the coffee to spill all over his bare gut. And he is the kind of man who, earlier tonight, got refused entry to the Casino because of his shoes. We had to go down to Target and buy him a new pair (which he had to take back to the counter several times) just so we could gain access to the establishment in celebration of Mum's 63rd birthday.

Personally I'd have turned him away for the fact that he was wearing a dark blue patterned shirt, white shoes and bright purple 3/4 pants.