My Father-in-Law's Advice Is Like a Box of Chocolates: You Never Know What Kind of Crazy You're Going to Eat

When I married into the Thompson family, I thought the hardest part would be remembering everyone’s birthday. I didn’t know the real challenge would be surviving Doug Thompson — my father-in-law — a man whose advice ranged from strangely profound to utterly unhinged, often within the same sentence.

Doug was a retired plumber, a part-time conspiracy theorist, and a full-time dispenser of unsolicited life lessons. He believed in speaking his truth, even when his truth sounded suspiciously like a plot from a forgotten 1980s action movie.

The first time I met him, I reached out my hand to shake his. He ignored it, pointed to my shoes, and said, “Never trust a man whose laces are too tight. That’s how the government keeps track of you.” Then he nodded, as if he’d just blessed me with sacred wisdom.

I laughed, assuming it was a joke. It wasn’t.

From that day forward, Doug made it his mission to pass along what he considered "Thompson Family Survival Skills." To him, life was a battlefield, and knowledge was a bulletproof vest—albeit one stitched together with duct tape, superstition, and a fair amount of caffeine.

Take, for example, the time I was considering a career change.

“Doug,” I said, “I’m thinking about quitting my job. I want to do something more meaningful.”

He leaned in, narrowed his eyes, and said:

“Never quit a job unless your boss starts worshipping crystals or uses the word ‘synergy’ more than three times a day. That’s when you know the place is cursed.”

Then he handed me a chocolate from a dented box he kept on the coffee table. I bit into it and found… horseradish filling. It was like his advice—unexpected, slightly painful, and impossible to forget.

That was Doug’s thing. Every piece of wisdom came with a chocolate, and no two were ever the same. Some were delicious. Some were horrifying. Once I bit into one that had blue cheese inside. He just shrugged and said, “That’s life, son. Sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it stinks. But you chew anyway.”

My wife, Megan, rolled her eyes every time her dad started in.

“He means well,” she’d whisper.

I wasn’t so sure. Like the time he helped me fix the leaky sink.

“Use peanut butter to seal that,” he said. “Temporarily. Works better than caulk if you’re in a pinch.”

It didn’t.

We ended up calling a real plumber. When I told Doug it didn’t work, he just laughed and handed me another chocolate—this one with an anchovy inside.

“Never take advice without questioning it,” he said. “Lesson learned.”

One weekend, we went camping as a family. Doug brought his "emergency survival kit," which included a compass, fishing line, a small rubber chicken, and a laminated map of Area 51.

“Just in case,” he said.

That night, we sat around the fire. He passed around his chocolates, and I braced myself. I got one with Pop Rocks and was pleasantly surprised.

“Life’s like that,” he said. “Sometimes it sizzles in a good way.”

Then he got serious.

“Look, son,” he said, “you’re part of this family now. And that means a few things. One, always keep jumper cables in your car. Two, never get in a debate with someone who thinks raccoons are reincarnated spirits. And three...”

He paused and took a deep breath.

“Three, love your wife like she’s the last sane person on earth. Because she probably is.”

That was the first time I realized his advice wasn’t all nonsense. It was dressed in humor, absurdity, and a hint of madness, but underneath it all was something solid.

Doug passed away last year.

At his funeral, Megan found a shoebox full of chocolates in his garage, each one labeled with a piece of advice. Some were ridiculous:

"Don't trust frogs with eyebrows."

"Never sneeze during a poker game."

"Always keep duct tape and hot sauce in your glove box."

But others were deeply touching:

"Apologize first. Even if you're right."

"Hug your kid every day. Even if they pretend they hate it."

"Real love isn't perfect. It's persistent."

We decided to pass out the chocolates to the guests. Every person left with a laugh—and a story.

Now, whenever I’m faced with a tough decision, I think of Doug. I open a random chocolate and brace myself. Will it be sweet or weird or outright disturbing?

Whatever it is, I chew anyway.

Because in the end, his advice, like his chocolates, taught me the same thing: You don’t always know what life will hand you. But if you listen close, even the craziest bites might just hold a little truth inside.