My wife works nights as a nurse, in labor and delivery, checking blue faced newborns for vitals signs. Which makes me feel like a self-obsessed narcissist because all I check for is for retweets and new likes on WordPress.
So, when I’m out in public with my 3 kids on a Saturday morning at the diner, I normally hear. You’ve got your hands full. I reply. If my wife agreed to an open marriage with Katy Perry. Assuming, my upcoming books sell huge. My hands would be full.
My so funny daughter making daddy laugh long time again. Daddy, what did you do with Grandma growing up? I don’t remember much kid. Daughter replies. Do you remember how awful her green beans were? I’ve created a comedy monster folks.
Shitting on my mother-in-law’s amorphous plans for Baba Camp.
Hey babe, what does Baba have planned for Baba camp for the kids? She’s only had the whole year to plan and feel God blessed about it.
Wife says. Fuck you. My mom mentioned something about taking the kids to the Delaware Aerospace Education Foundation.
I reply. But your parents have spent more money for doggy daycare than they have for any their grandchildren for the past 8 years So, don’t expect me to be floating on air to Dark Side of The Moon on the primo Maui Wowie at the prospect of them footing the bill for Space Camp anytime this millennium.
Also, Obama pulled the plug on NASA. And Space Force isn’t off the ground yet. So, I’m not expecting any major space shuttle reveals on display when they visit.
Last, we just took the kids to DC to the Air and Space Museum to gaze at Spaceship One. But a garden tour of Direct TV satellite dishes and of a UFO shaped house in the bowels of bumble fuck Delaware sounds like a blast.
I bet the ex-shuttle launch site is more deserted than Hunter Biden’s coke baggie after last call from the bathroom stall.
Me emoting about my 5-year-old-son making the monkey bars his bitch for a pleasant change of pace.
Great job Art Show, way to fill out that tang top. Don’t forget muscle has memory. My old catering boss in Orange County urged me to smile more as I worked the buffet line. Unlike you, I had no past happy muscle memory to flex from. Playing with GI Joe figures alone in my room throughout my entire 10th grade school year didn’t help. Neither did me getting a book titled the 12 Stages of Puberty from Mimi for Hanukkah one year. I said. Mom, getting this book in front of my younger brother of 3 years is so embarrassing. Jonathan already hit puberty and can play with himself whenever he wants. Mom replies. But you play with yourself all the time with your, GI-Joe figures.
Since I became a married man with 3 kids. In other words, a slut in a straight jacket. I flirt with older MILFS at the track by acting out cupping their scrumptios looking ta-tas as I run around the track to Highway to Hell to let them know how hot they look in their stretchy Lulu Lemon sports bras, begging to be manhandled in my mind at the very least.
My so funny daughter making daddy laugh again long time again.
I ask her. So, Matilda, do you think Uncle John really had a kid’s birthday party to attend, knowing he’s gotten you a grand total of 3 gifts in 8 years? Daughter replies. I think he’s telling the truth daddy. A kid’s birthday party is an elaborate excuse to blow off meeting us at the park to play ball. And Uncle John isn’t that smart.
Editor texts me. Got a huge migraine. Will have your 1st round edit by tomorrow. 2nd round of edits will take 3 days max. P.S Matilda, is so funny.
I share the text with my daughter. She replies. The Comedy Gold Mobile is all mine. I’m funnier than you are.
I reply. Relax, Female Flash. I was force feeding you lines when you can barely string to 2 words together. Do you remember the routine? Matilda do you have a nookie problem? Yes, I’m a little obsessed. I remember daddy. I also remember, money equals freedom. And Time is money and veggie bacon doesn’t pay for a Gold colored Porsche SUV. So can you get Falling For Fatherhood in publishable shape before Father’s Day already?