Not too long ago, I taught my dad how to send text messages. Before you think me a techno-saint, know this: I did it for my own convenience. (In the unlikely event that you’re not aware … I hate talking on the phone. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.) Little did I know that, in the process of bending the world to my own needs and desires, I was creating a monster.

My dad is like many a dad … cute when it comes to technology. Well, he would find “cute” to be objectionably lacking in virility. Let’s just say that his orientation to technology endears him to me. (For the record, my dad is fierce.)

I don’t mean to suggest he’s a Luddite or a ’tard in any way. He partakes of technology in various forms. He enjoys it. He is covetous when I come around with new gadgets. He just doesn’t have the time or, rather, can’t be bothered to stay on the cutting edge. He’s happy to wait for: a) my hand-me-downs (a 1st gen iPod), b) me to buy it for him (an iMac), or c) me to talk my mom into getting him one (an iPhone … this is still a work in progress).

Anyway, soon after I taught him to text, I began getting messages from him randomly during the day.

Hi. My students are taking an exam so I’m practicing my texting.

Whacha doing?

Can you increase speed of cursor?

If I didn’t text right back, he got a little huffy.

Cat got your thumbs?

Before long, I started getting texts from him every morning while I got ready. To say that I was amused would be a gross understatement.

This last Monday, he began by opining about the Pats’ Super Bowl performance. Of course, it quickly (d)evolved into a discussion on flaws and the nature of human frailty. I suggested that “we’re so friggin deep” and let him know that I had to head out for work.

Later that day, I got a text from him that read in its entirety:

Rue the Griffin

Fock! The old man is hitting the pipe.

About 30 minutes later I get:

As the Griffin lives so must it be rued!

Yeah. I’m thinking he’s gotten so wrapped up in the texting that he’s now part of a flash mob cult thing or some shit. I texted him back when I left work, to the effect of “What the fuck does ‘Rue the Griffin’ mean?!?” No reply.

My mom calls me later that night. First order of business: Don’t encourage your dad’s texting addiction. (Apparently, he does not have the unlimited plan. Oops.) Second order of business: What is a griffin?

Now I’m sure they are both fucking with me. For what reason, I know not.

I say, “Whaddya mean? He’s the one who Rue-the-Griffined me!”

“No, no. He said you mentioned something about griffin this morning.”

Slowly … very, very slowly … it began to dawn on me. I went to my phone and looked back at the text conversation.

Turns out, my phone’s auto spell-correcter had not understood the “friggin” in “we’re so friggin deep.” What my dad received was “we’re so griffin deep.”

Having found it necessary previously to resort to Google to understand such things as “btw” and “rofl,” he must have taken to the Internets to decipher griffin. Coming up short, he took it upon himself to make sense of nonsense.

The next morning, I’m thinking this is just about the funniest shit I’ve come across in a while. I go to work and tell the story to my boss, who has a very similar sense of … we’ll call it humor. We both laugh. We shoot the shit for a while about the socio-anthropology of texting. I begin writing this post in my head.

Driving home that night, I hear the familiar ding of my phone telling me I have a new text message. Sure it’s my dad, I grab it right away.

It’s not my dad. It’s my fucking BOSS.

Rue the Griffin.

Yeah, man.

As the Griffin lives, so must it be rued.