Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Son of A Douche

So my dumbass dad's still trekking about tiki huts in the jungle. He called and wanted me to let you all know he was okay. God. He said something about strapping coconuts to his legs or whatever, and I guess Oskar thought Leroy's dreads were new ribbons and took a few swipes. Dad says him and Leroy are now chilling in some hot springs, having a "session." What losers. God, do you know how many saunas dad's dragged me into? Like seeing a bunch of old dicks hanging loose is gonna do anything for my "macho knowledge." And if Uncle Tong bounces his tits at me again, I swear, I'm gonna kick that dude in the face. I can do it, too; after all, my dad's always going on about how limber I am.

"The son of a champ!" he likes to say. Such bullshit. Bianca, that suck-up priss, made him a champ belt in home ec. Guess who was in charge of lugging that piece of sparkly shit around the house. Dad said it was for my training, but I know he was pretending I was some stupidass fan dogging his footsteps. Plus, he kept checking out his reflection in the buckle. Real handy, that, a walking mirror. So lame. I wish he'd pull a tendon and never do karate again. I know that sounds harsh, but fuck man. How'd you like it if your dad kept throwing fake punches at you, stopping an inch from your nose? He giggles like a fucking girl, by the way. Or if you woke up and your dad was at the foot of your bed, doing the splits in a jockstrap? This shit's just not normal. And forget about going out in public. God, stop flexing. You're old, do the decent thing. Stop, drop, die. Or at least leave me the hell alone.

Teacher-parent conferences are coming up. Please dad, for the love of god, stop trying to flirt with my teachers. It's pathetic. Talking in French and bench-pressing them above your head, do you know how embarrassing that shit is? God, I wish you weren't such a fucking chump. Champ.