A DAY IN THE LIFE: CHIEF CRAZY PAPPY, HEAD OF THE ECCENTRIC MOYERS TRIBE

In July, one month before my upcoming wedding, I'll finally be moving out of my parents' home. It's a day both my parents and I have been anxiously waiting. (Actually, I'm not sure who's happier.)

And it will certainly be an adjustment. But, as my family is all aware, it is one I, at age 24, am decidedly ready for.

Not that I won't miss them, I will.

My family is an eccentric bunch, they really are. Some people say that in an attempt to imply their family is interesting. Mine's not interesting, they're simply eccentric. (Eccentric is the nice way of saying they're crazy.)

While each member of my family is off-center in his or her own peculiar way, my father is the most crazy, King of the Kookies if you will.

He does one thing that really irks me. He loves to irritate me. He craves it. He sees it as some sort of psychological win if he can get under my skin.

Here's a for instance:

"I saw Lisa," he'll say. (Lisa is a girl who dumped me.) "She was looking really nice and she was with this tall good looking guy who looks like he might play football."

He never saw Lisa. I know it and he knows it. He just likes to get under my skin.

He doesn't relent even after he's noticed I'm angry.

After I tell him that's not very funny, he'll look at me and say with as much mock-sincerity as he can muster: "You still love her, don't you?"

Ironically, it's not even much of a challenge to aggravate me. I am easily annoyed. But he finds it amusing.

But this sends him strolling back to his bedroom with a pleased, accomplished smile on his face.

Another thing I won't miss is this bizarre game that he and my sister, Delanie, have been playing for the past several years. They creep around the house waiting to catch the other off-guard. Sometimes one will wait for the other coming around a corner or sitting alone in his or own room.

They have been known to wait for days at the bottoms of stairs, inside closets, behind curtains or crouched down in the back seats of the other's car.

When one does catch the other unaware, the creeper lets out a loud scream that can best be described as a snarly growl. This is usually accompanied with some sort of grabbing motion, ala Lon Chaney's Wolfman.

If my sister is the victim, then she unleashes a bloodcurdling scream which then travels throughout the house, specifically seeks my inner eardrum and repeatedly scratches it. My father finds this reaction not only gratifying but uproariously humorous as well.

He chuckles his way all the way back to his room, while Delanie is usually collapsed in a corner, clutching her heart.

When my father is the one who is startled, he yelps back at Delanie and she gets scared and lets out a bloodcurdling scream, which sends my father back to his room, chuckling.

But this is not the only annoying game my father plays.

My father is also a big fan of that point-at-your-shirt-as-if-there's-something-on-it game. I think I am his favorite player.

When I was five it was understandable that he would do this. Now when he does this, I don't look down. Not to be beaten, he just stands there pointing at my shirt.

We've been known to stand in silence for several minutes, him pointing at my shirt while I glare sternly and stubbornly straight ahead.

But I eventually give in. I hate to disappoint him, so I go ahead and look down with my best "Oh, alas, alack, is there something on my shirt?" Surely he knows this is for his benefit. But he doesn't mind. He brushes his hand up across my face, the proud victor, proving he'll always be smarter than his college-boy son. He goes off to his room, chuckling.

My father gets so few pleasures these days. But he does spend a lot of time in his room.

I take comfort only in the fact that I'll probably outlive him by 40 years.

~Scott Moyers is the editor of the Jackson USA Signal.