Last week at soccer, I was getting Older Son ready. Next to us, Daddy Douchebag—$400 sunglasses, a sweater with Lamborghini on it ,and, I shit you not, capri pants—and older brother, Chip, watched younger brother warm up. The kid did something awkward with his ball and Daddy D-Bag and Chip laughed at him.
Then D-Bag called the young kid stupid. In that defendable way. Just joking kind of stuff.
This douchenut will retain access to his kids tonight, because he’s safe while a good mom or dad, doing something out of the ordinary with love and experience front of mind, will lose access because some 3rd party said the adventure, lifestyle, approach isn’t appropriate.
If I were a superhero, I would be Divorce Man—policing the grey areas of family law. Daddy Douchebag would get his at some cocktail hour, out front of One restaurant in Yorkville. Divorce Man would stealthily approach D-Bag’s Diablo, push the valet out of the way, and kick the door shut on DD’s exposed left leg. Then he would elbow Daddy’s throat and drag him into the well-appointed bathrooms of the Hazleton Hotel where they would discuss some rules of fatherhood . . .
Repeat after me Double D.
Wait! Divorce Man! What’s Double—?
Repeat! I won’t call my kid stupid…
I won’t call my kid stupid…
But especially as I am a big boy wearing little boy pants.
What’s wrong with cap—
But especially as I am a…
…as I am a big bo —
Then I…er…Divorce Man would Jason Bourne the fuckdick right there in the toilet. Daddy Douchebag, despite all his strength and bravery when Chip is around, would have nothing on this day. Except for a swirlie.