Let Me Tell You About My Daddy. His Name Is Daddy.
Daddy says mushrooms are good for him but he says certain mushrooms make him feel less Daddyish. He says this as he stares at the shag carpet.
Daddy tiredly takes off his shoes and looks at me cross-eyed and says Daddy things in a low voice.
Daddy keeps talking about the Chinese buffet on 82nd, but I just want him to rub my neck. I'm in some pain. Send help.
Daddy rents a later Adam Sandler movie. Daddy cries.
“Billy Joel is music for when you start hard drugs after promising your family you never would again,” Daddy says, glazed eyes closing in reverie.
Daddy crops his own forehead out of his Facebook profile photo. Daddy is humble in his virtual presence.
I sit on Daddy’s lap, not wearing underwear, and I mark him as mine.
Daddy takes his 10-speed bicycle out of the garage and puts on his Winnie-the-Pooh shirt for a ride around the neighborhood. Ten minutes he has ventured out of the neighborhood and rides on a busy street to the Tobacco store. He is riding the wrong way against traffic.
Daddy is proud of his new mom jeans. Does not realize his fashion choice is gendered.
Daddy asks me to feed him beets. I bring beets on a fork to Daddy. He says, I have never paid attention to this food before but I have had it. He nods his head and wipes his hands on his jeans. Looks westward. Later he says they tasted weird.
Daddy’s energy is escalating. His hands grow larger by the second as he eats his horse food.
Daddy shaves his pussy while watching Forensic Files. Enthralled. The killer was apprehended because of his distinctive hand-writing. His strawberry-shaped pubic hair signals Daddy’s love canyon.
Daddy talks Daddy-talk to the other Daddys but has a hard time saying the word Daddy. His brow folds in on itself and his neck starts to itch and sweat. He blames it on the smoke from the barbecue. One Daddy picks up metal tongs and pretends they’re a sword. “Say Daddy,” the tongs Daddy says to Daddy but Daddy is verbally constipated, his tongue swelling. The Daddys all chant “Daddy” until Daddy finally gives up and spits on the ground.
Daddy is frustrated by erasures and does not understand their value. He wants to speak up about this in his favorite on-line chatroom but feels that his argument would be met with scorn and indifference.
Daddy reads The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by candlelight. He reads A Time To Kill in the bubble bath.
Daddy says “Yamaha” the wrong way. Every time, he says “Yamaha.”
Daddy falls asleep watching a Lord of the Rings marathon on TNT
Daddy cries watching Fried Green Tomatoes on TNT
Daddy turns the channel when Ghostbusters 2 comes on TNT
Daddy lives every day like it’s Thanksgiving.
One night before bed, Daddy said to me, “Daddy, did you brush your teeth?” and I said yes and he said, “Let me smell them.” I opened my mouth and he stuck his nose inside and smiled at me with approval.
I like it when Daddy calls me Daddy. It’s like I’m looking into a mirror.
One time, while we were out hunting, Daddy made a noise like a hawk and even though no one else was around I felt embarrassed about it. He shot a bow and arrow at something on the ground and it killed a furry creature that only had three legs and no face. He said something that sounded like a prayer and it had some words that I think might be deemed racist in today’s society.
Daddy gets mad that others don’t take mowing the lawn as serious as he does.
Daddy never wanted kids but guess what here we are.
Daddy drinks an IPA at a sports bar and hates it but already paid for it so he drinks it all. He asks a 20-something woman two seats over, “What kind of whip do you drive?”
Sometimes Daddy tries to eat my nose and calls it “face cheese.” He says I’m his little cheese platter. I didn’t like this at first but I’ve since discovered the joys of eating a good face.
Daddy checks his Yahoo email inbox and deletes all of the Office Max e-blasts. He keeps the Home Depot ones.
Daddy’s favorite song is Hotline Bling. His second favorite song is How Bizarre.
Daddy starts a Go Fund Me when he really wants a burrito but doesn’t want to put on pants and leave his house.
Daddy signs off all of his emails with Sincerely.
Daddy says there is a time and place for lap treats. “The time is now and the place is my lap.”
As far as Daddy knows, arugula is a finely aged cheese.
Daddy went to see My Chemical Romance at the Myrtle Beach House of Blues. Two times. Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge.
Daddy’s Twitter handle is @DaddysHomeAlone
Daddy is listening to death metal and making an erasure out of the manual for his Nissan Rogue. He erases all the words except for “install… your… care.” He imagines the steering wheel in his rough hands and becomes excited.
Daddy fondles his breasts in the mirror seven minutes after I leave for Cincinnati. We have such a strong psychic connection that I can feel his betrayal all the way from the freeway exit.
Daddy only drinks whiskey brands that are parts of weapons but not able to harm someone on their own. Bullet. Bow. Sword hilt. Ax handle.
There has been a birth in the family. Daddy smokes some of a cigar and vomits into a nearby bush.
Daddy tries to act like he knows what espresso is, but he thinks it’s just coffee with ice cream in it.
Daddy says I should shave my legs but he won’t let me use his razor. Says he’s afraid of something called “The Sacramento Fever.” I look it up on Bing and find a variety of pornographic websites. I present Daddy with one of the videos after dinner and he says, “Yeah, that’s how it all happens.”
Daddy is getting better at erasures. This time he uses a biography on Yukio Mishima, the famous Japanese author who died by seppuku, a ritual suicide. “Honor… the… sword… bathed… in… coup d'état”
Daddy applies sun block to the front of my body but says I have to do the back by myself. He still calls it “lotion” even though it’s gauche.
Daddy puts on black lipstick and says he wants me to take his photo for Instagram. He is holding a large pet snake that we just bought at the pet store. He changes his name to SnakeDaddyVolume2 on Instagram. He tags me in the pic but I untag it an hour later.
Daddy gave me a gift certificate to FYE and said, “I don’t know if these stores exist anymore.”
Daddy asked me to kiss him at Sbarro and when I refused he said, “Who bought you this baked ziti off the hot bar?”
Daddy has only eaten soft serve for the past seven days. Daddy posts on Facebook: Been enjoying the rewards of a vegan lifestyle for a week!
Daddy asks you if your friends are copying him or dressing “Normchore”, he can’t tell the difference. There is no difference. Daddy knows this deep inside his own body.
Daddy is confident enough to enjoy the erogenous zone of his own nipples.
Daddy wants to go to Venice, Italy more than anywhere in the world. He wants to see where they invented the window blinds and pay homage. He also would like to visit the fountain from the Lizzie McGuire movie.
Daddy blushes when I tell him he looks “hot.” He does fifty push-ups every night and even twenty sit-ups every Friday night. He flexes in the mirror while listening to Future in his ear buds. He pretends he doesn’t notice me watching.
While telling me a story about an episode of the TV show WKRP in Cincinatti, Daddy pauses to collect himself. He says he was very sad for the ten people who died at The Who concert in 1979 when the crowd rushed the stage and people were trampled. I’ve heard this story before and remind him that it was eleven people who died and 26 were injured. He begins to sob uncontrollably. It is during times like this when I love him most.
Trash Monster is two Daddys. Guess which ones.