Mom texts from her cross-country trip stop in Memphis with my dad.
“How is Samuel enjoying camp?”
I say, “He’s a happy camper. Funnier Dad, happier baby.”
Just like how John’s mother and my 2nd Grade teacher Mrs. Pariso would call me Elvis growing up. Samuel is getting hit on by older Italian woman at DeCicco’s all summer long. Last one said to Samuel. “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.”
And I say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative. I’m not sending him to junior high without a lawyer on his person at all times to hand out pre-poundage consent forms. I call him Chosen Curls was bound to woo for a reason. But instead of declaring bankruptcy, after spending our last rolls of Nickles on gas, I can always sell lockets of his hair for 5 grand a pop on Chinese Ebay. That’s a sustainable business model to keep us rocking in President Poopy Pants world.” Mighty Magic, Challah. Thank you very much.
My wife saw the Elvis movie, which made her walk away from the movie with a heightened appreciation of his sex appeal now. So now, whenever I want to get the wife in the mood for some lockjaw love on my pussy wrecker, rearranger, I’ll whip it out on our Time Life memorial Elvis plate and say, “Memphis Mafia lives. You want to hit that? Fine, pretend, I’m giving you communion Priscilla. Then, pick up your shit and your Fisher Price Farmhouse and have your mommy pick you up in 2 minutes and you got yourself a deal.”
I like to encourage my son’s fearlessness, so he isn’t controlled by fear and only takes up diving off the diving board at 43 years old like his old man. Mom says, “I don’t remember you diving ever.” I say, “That’s because I grew up in the era of Aids mom. So, I’ve never gone headfirst into anything without some initial, gun-shy trepidation. Plus, dad calling me a waste of height before I bloomed under my fruit of looms while being stuck in my head miserable and alone for being the last kid to get into puberty party didn’t help my manly metamorphosis into a high-flying Jimmy Snuka like Little Richard without his rollicking personality swinging in my favor just yet.”
So, my son’s favorite Bruce Lee movie scene is the fight with O’Hara, when he says, “Board, don’t hit back.” That is before Bruce Lee kills O’Hara with a jump kick on to his cranium, which he breaks in 2 like a Meghan Mccain sat on Watermelon, after an act of honor chucking, desperation on O’Hara’s part when he breaks a fairly sizeable beer to cut Bruce with, which causes the master to deliver the final kill shot kick in the head for the ages. As a result, my son, wanted to recreate the scene, and break the glass, only for Daddy to yell, “O’Hara”, which drug lord Han does to O’Hara after he breaks the beer bottle in a no more honor admonishing manner. So, whenever my son whips out his Schmeckel when my Nespresso is being made instead of doing planks with me as I wait, I yell, “Not kosher baby”, or “O’Hara”, pick up your pants Schmeckel Spot.”
I text my mother an O-Hara Lives Part 2 video, so she knows her grandson isn’t breaking his cherry here as he breaks a Shirley Temple Saranac bottle on a rock before yelling, “O’Hara. I laugh uncontrollably on the video and say, “Fast forward funny, O’Hara lives. Shirley Temple Knife, Challah. Thank you very much. But my son is pissed because he broke the entire bottle with only a tiny part of the top handle left in his striking hand. I urge him to say, “Thank you very much. ” Son says, “Thank you very much. This sucks and throws the tip of Shirley Temple bottle on the ground away in disgust.” Mom texts back, “Why are you sending me videos of my grandson breaking bottles on rocks while yelling O’Hara? “I text back, “O’Hara, New World Order, Klaus Schwab, Soros and Friends buying all the farmland and trailer parks on the cheap to turn us into Placenta Smoothie Nation. What difference does it make?” Shirly Temple Life, Challah. Thank you very much.