Call her Daddy’s little Leno

My DAD IS taking another week off, so I’m writing his column for him again. Me, the older daughter -- the funny one in the fam. Dad tells me he just needs a little rest. According to him, “Carson used to take a lot of time off too.”

“Kit Carson?” I say.

“Johnny Carson,” he says. “He used to take time off to recharge his batteries.”

“You have batteries, Dad?” my little sister asks.

“Actually, I’m more of a hybrid,” he says.

Yeah, he’s a hybrid all right. He’s powered by cheeseburgers and Chardonnay. He thinks I don’t know what goes on around here, but I do. There’s a lot of drinking on the side. There’s a lot of romantic tension too. No romance. Just romantic tension. There’s a big difference, if you ask me.

“Have you ever watched a woman blow her nose?” he’s asking my brother right now.

“No,” says my brother.

If you’ve read my dad’s column, you probably think nothing really goes on around here. But they’re in the kitchen right this moment, my brother and him, discussing the way women blow their noses. Trust me, it’s totally riveting.

“The woman dabs her nose,” my dad’s explaining, “then she folds the Kleenex about four times, then she dabs it again. Dab, fold-fold-fold-fold. Dab, fold-fold-fold-fold. Usually takes about half an hour.”

“I mean, just blow your nose already!” my brother chimes in.

“Exactly,” says my dad.

“Honk-honk,” my baby brother says, pretending to blow his nose.

“See?” Dad says. “That guy there knows about noses.”

I think my dad’s seen too many episodes of “Seinfeld.” Or maybe “MASH.” Definitely “MASH,” which he laughs at every time, even though he’s memorized all the lines. Some guys quote “The Simpsons.” My dad? He quotes 30-year-old sitcoms.

“Dad?”

“Huh?

“Do you try to be a dinosaur?” I ask, “or does it just come naturally?”

“It comes naturally,” he says proudly, “but I nurture it a little.”

Then he starts talking about how he wants to install a second, secret kitchen in the house, so he can store food he likes without fear of someone gobbling it up -- salami, olives, stale fortune cookies, all the stuff he used to eat in college.

“Great idea on the kitchen, Dad,” my little sister tells him.

“I’m just worried . . . “ he says.

“What?”

“I might have to clean it myself,” he tells her.

“Mom would probably help you,” my sister says.

“Probably not,” says my dad.

Dad is really, really careful about his diet. He only eats processed foods. I keep telling Mom that we should probably buy him a defibrillator for his birthday. You know, just in case. But she says he’s the kind of restless, opinionated little man who jump-starts his own heart.

Like, the other day, he starts telling my little sister that we live in a country where only the millionaires threaten to strike -- baseball players, screenwriters. He expects hedge fund managers to walk off the job soon in search of better tax breaks.

“Let the revolution begin!” he screams.

There’s this long, long pause.

“Now, Daddy?” my little brother asks.

“What revolution?” my little sister whispers to my mom.

“Your daddy thinks he’s Thomas Paine,” my mom explains.

“If it wasn’t for Thomas Paine, you wouldn’t be here,” Dad tells my sister.

“Thomas Paine’s, like, our real dad?” asks my sister.

Omigod, just ship me to Mars or something. When my dad starts going off about government, you just want to flee the solar system.

You should’ve heard him the other day explaining coins to my baby brother. All of a sudden he starts ranting about why pennies and nickels are bigger than dimes.

“Now that I look at it, this makes no sense,” he says. “The U.S. system of coinage makes no sense at all.”

“You’re right, Daddy,” my baby brother says, then hugs him.

Then my dad starts complaining about the Rockies’ performance in the World Series and how success has “ripped the funny bone right out of Woody Allen.” My dad also has a lot to offer on that new sewer proposal in our little suburb.

“Holy cow, Hooterville’s finally getting sewers,” he says one day while reading the local paper.

“Yeaaaaaaaa!” my baby brother says, hopping up and down like a bunny.

“Hey, Dad, any thoughts on this global warming stuff?” I ask.

“Don’t provoke your father,” Mom says.

See, some things change. Some things don’t. Then there are dads, who should change but never really do. Hey, I got it! Maybe they could declare my dad a historical marker or something. Mom could sell T-shirts.

Hello, White House? Have I got a monument for you . . . .

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.