What’s better than loved Dada? Being looked up to with your pure good blasting eyes, Female Flash.
My 1st born Singing Rose is my sweeter, funnier, ten times smarter twin. Compared to her 2 brothers, she looks like me the most. Although you’ll never hear Baba give daddy long legs credit for my star making gene power.
I hate hearing. Kids ruined my life. Like you had to decline so many invitations to the Playboy Mansion afterwards. Besides, it’s not my fault your daughter is a blah brained, dimmed projection of your borderline catatonic, lobotomized personality.
Kids ruined your life. Stop acting like your Whiteboard rehash reiterations at the Phoenix Airport Executive Lounge made such riveting lore to begin with.
Kids ruined your life. Yeah, I don’t see your daughter’s 1st grade teacher fantasizing about cloning more versions of your dumpy dour twin during your next parent teacher conference either.
Reality is, my Kettle Bell dense strong, effortless hilarious, daughter, Sweet Clone Matilda. Is an out of this world, life giver, infinite upgrade upper. She’ll take anyone in touch with her orbital spin of supreme loveliness higher.
I got my TV writing at Vh1 Classic in the big city when she was 2. Then, Matilda could only deliver 1 word punchlines for our comedy act at the deli. “Matilda, what did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks?” Daughter says. “Bupkus, daddy, Bupkus!”
Now, my 7 year old daughter is picking out and checking out Ivy and Bean chapter books with her own library card. Because she has to make up for her dad’s reading shortcomings. Whose never read a book of fiction in his life according to her.
I just learned how my dad was the headliner speaker at his best friend’s funeral, not his 1st born daughter. This upset me tremendously. Knowing my own daughter has admitted prior to murdering Uncle John, if he’s a no show at my funeral.
I don’t care what the daughter’s eulogy about her dad was about. A daughter is a dad’s special baby forevermore. Who outshines whatever purported, killer set eulogy you delivered on your best bud’s behalf. No offense Dad.
My parents describing themselves as involved, affectionate grandparents 8 days a year is a prime example of good grandparent derangement syndrome. But their horse shit pool net in place of a fence 8 years later makes up for it.
I’d drop Matilda off at daycare once a week when she was 2. Tear up and say. I have to get more writing done Matilda. Because my mock copywriting ads for Woodford Reserve, “CLASS IN A GLASS”, is no cash crop to bank future earnings on anytime soon.
Better than loved is the never ending hug with your 7 year old daughter at home, prompting her to say “Daddy, I never want this moment to end.” But ease up on my rib cage a bit. Is this what mama means about you being too rough with her?”
Better than loved is your daughter taking one bite of your Burrata bomb, roasted homegrown cherry tomato basil specked, cornmeal meal dusted pizza and saying, “Daddy, I know you really want to be a comedian. But can’t you be a pizza maker in Heaven instead?”
Better than loved is a daughter who makes this do it all dad feel like the luckiest man on earth. For being the sweetest, most emotive, comedy bud giver superior I never had.