I only want to smell my daughter’s natural scent, Strawberrys. Any other scent on her is forced weird like herbed shampoo made from Hemp I’m assuming, which is Indigo Girls skinny dipping gross. Understand, I don’t have a problem with my daughter becoming a lesbian because she’ll be immune from getting Aids. Which is a relief, knowing how she can take a licking and keep on ticking. Don Draper, I fucked him, I can’t take no more. Dice lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Understand my daughter is 11 years old in case you’re wondering why you haven’t puked up your Linguini in a white wine clam sauce yet. But now my daughter wears Jessica Simpson perfume, which ruins my 3-way fantasy with my wife once I score a standing room only residency in Vegas, for Do It All Dad Does Decadence. Prior, when my wife used to work nights, I’d be out in public with all 3 of my kid more often, which would prompt grown men to say, “You’ve got your hands full bro.” And I’d say, “If my book United We Laugh becomes a worldwide sensation, especially in France, resulting in my wife agreeing to an open marriage with Jessica Simpson, then my hands will be full.” Jessica’s Simpson’s perfume isn’t an exact replica of her sexy scrumptious scent inside. Still, I don’t want my daughter smelling like generic perfume for Walmart shoppers either. Perfume at 11? What’s next, my daughter checking at scented lube ambassadors on Late Night with Seth Meyers at 12, sponsored by genderfluidassholes.com? I finally confront my daughter and say, “Who are you wearing Jessica Simpson for again? Is there a metrosexual boy crooner in your class that I don’t know about?” Daughter says, “Chill out daddy, I just to feel girly wearing it the way you charge money we don’t have on a grey cashmere sweater from Banana Republic to feel more banger pretty yourself, no offense.” Plus, didn’t you always call Guido’s the original metrosexuals of their day? And I say, “Yeah, but Jessica Simpson perfume throws out a mommy muff vibe during a middle-aged crisis for brand diversification’s sake only. And you’re still only 11, who just got her breast buds yesterday, so can we call a time out on your full-blown blossoming into womanhood for age of innocence prolongment sake? Despite mommy insisting I should be relieved after proclaiming how you’re the last one to get breast buds in your 6th grade class, which prompted to me say, “Then, why haven’t your breast buds sprouted yet?” I add, “Plus, your predominant scent of strawberry’s isn’t some freak, random occurrence. It’s because Daddy sold a spleen to feed your habit of drinking only Strawberry Kaffir at Trader’s Joe’s from 1-4, so let’s get some more milage out of that imbibed scent, before you start getting dolled up for the next kid on the block intent on giving you the good stuff.” Where have you gone Strawberry Shortcake? Our country needs you. Boy Band Blues live, Challah. Thank you very much.