To my dearest darling Michelangelo,
I would like to begin by addressing
this issue: No, you are not named after one of the greatest Renaissance
painters of Italy. You are named after an orange-bandana-wearing turtle with
ninja abilities and a great love for pizza. Glad we got that out of the
way. And no, I had no doubt you would be a son, for I mail-ordered you
from Cambodia. All the big stars are doing it, just ask Angelina and
Brad. You were in fact a complimentary gift that came along with her
15th purchase, auntie Jolie was nice enough to let me keep you.
Apparently there's something about your extra limb that she didn't think
'fit in' with her current freak-show circus, but hey, yay for us, huh!
Now parents don't normally write letters to their imaginary gifted-program-valedictorian-multi-talented children
unless they forsee a tragic accident in their futures that involves a
treasure hunt and a search for the true murderer behind their mysterious
deaths. Like baldy Nic Cage in National Treasure meets sexy Miss
Marple. But alas, our circumstances are slightly less thrilling.
The main
motivation behind this letter, I guess, is my stint at an After School
Program. I know what you're thinking: Daddykins, the great and
successful mind behind all the wealth and repute of our great familial
empire, had the time to volunteer with children? Yes, it is all true, my
sweet three-armed prince. Back in the days where I was ruling the
college scene, I volunteered with a housing community for the
under-privileged to help with their children's homework. We occasionally
play games with them, make arts-and-crafts with them, basically give
them the attention they're starving for but unable to obtain from their
absent parents.
That was unfair. Not ever parent can be as attentive and wonderful as I. Remember that when I'm too frail to wipe my own ass.
Being exposed
to all these kids really made me stop and think about what I would do if
I had my own children. I'm sure all of their parents had good
intentions, but the fact is, some of these children are what we in the
grown-up community refer to as little dickheads. Not to be confused with
actual small penises, those are referred to as 'failures of mankind'. I
honestly have no idea what I would do if my child had grown up to
become a racist, inattentive, insubordinate chump who drives volunteers
crazy. It's too late for a vacuum-cleaning abortion to dismember his
little body now! Do I know the necessary steps I have to take to ensure
that my own child never becomes someone that a future blogger would
write about? If those children are the future of our society, then we
are all done for. I don't want to scare you, honeypuff, 'Gelo dear, but it's true.
By
the way, remind me to stop calling you 'Gelo, maybe that's why you eat
that much jello and grew so humungous. Maybe if you slimmed down daddy
would let you go out in public again.
Well of course
there are just perfect angels at the program that makes everything
worth it. Children that grew really attached to me, who would always
come clamoring up on me and begging me to play basketball with them.
Maybe they ask me because I'm so bad at it and they know they would win.
But nevertheless, they're sweet delights to be around. The good ones
are always younger, I realized. Would they grow up to lose that sweet
disposition and instead take on the grouchiness of awkward pre-teens? That
would almost be too much for me to bear.
So I guess all
I ask from you, future light-of-my-life, is for your forgiveness.
Parents screw up in every way they can, in all manners whether they want
to or not, in every position they can think of. Hang on, that's just for
screwing. My point is, I would have given my all in raising you, and
all I ask is that you not hold it against me. And to not become an
asshole.
Your loving father,
Father
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| Kids dig me |
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