So a few days later, we are at Shae’s school for a parent/teacher conference. Shae is in a cheerful mood.

“My dad and I went to see Final Destination 3,” she says to her teacher.

Ms. Covington raises an eyebrow as if to say “Nice wholesome entertainment.”

Come on, I say to myself. She’s almost seventeen.

“My dad laughed every time someone died,” she said.

“I did not,” I protested.

“Yes you did,” she said.

So I thought about it. Some of the deaths were pretty funny, but I don’t think I laughed when the nail gun used a girl’s head for a pincushion, or when the preppy chicks turned into french-fries in the tanning beds. But I did laugh at some of the others.

“Okay, maybe I laughed at some of them,” I said.

“He was the only one laughing,” she continued.

Now, I’m starting to feel bad.

So we go into her counselor’s office.

“We saw Final Destination 3. Dad laughed every time someone died.”

Nice, the counselor said, not with words, but with her expression.

A few days later, she tells me, “Hey Dad, everyone thinks you’re twisted for laughing every time someone died in FD3.”

Everyone? “Who all did you tell?”

“My friends, my friends’ parents. My psychiatrist.”

“Your shrink? You told your shrink?”

She smiled smugly.

So I am thinking, A) No wonder this kid has a psychiatrist. Her dad laughs every time someone dies. B) Her psychiatrist is probably signing the papers now to have me committed.

So, I’ve been waiting ever since for the other shoe to fall.

One more time, as loud as you can, how does it go?

They’re coming to take me away, ha, ha, ho, ho, hee, hee…

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