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Yesterday, Rice-Boy Larry didn't get home until 9 p.m. Yet it's not unusual for my kid to be late. In fact, he often stays after school to study with his friends. But there was a troubled look on his face that sent alarm bells through my entire body.
I said, "Let me cut you a piece of birthday cake."
He shrugged his shoulders. "OK. A little chocolate never hurt anybody."
"Well, go sit at the kitchen table because I don't need you spilling frosting all over the floor."
He sighed heavily but eventually did what I asked. I cut him a huge slice and placed it in front of him.
"Thanks." He shoved a piece into his mouth and began chewing. "Tastes good."
I rubbed his shoulders. "So did an innocent kitten get squashed by a car?"
"What?"
"It's that look on your face." I paused for dramatic effect. "There's definitely something wrong."
Poor Rice-Boy suddenly started weeping. The tears dripped down his face, and I handed him a napkin to clean the snot from his nose.
He said, "It's my brother."
I nodded. "What about him?"
"He keeps sending me messages saying that I have to return to America. According to him, I won't be able to get into a university with an international diploma."
I laughed out loud. "That's complete bullshit, so you can put that nonsense out of your mind."
"It's like I'm caught between the two of you. If I stay, I'll disappoint Ken. But if I go, I'll disappoint you. It's driving me crazy."
I sat down next to him. "Son, you're only sixteen, so I'm the guy that gets to make the final decision. Not you. And let's be honest. Ken's a fun-loving pothead who has no business being in charge of a child." I patted him on the hand. "Let me put your mind at ease. You're staying here with your old man whether you like it or not."
Don't get me wrong. Chicken Ken is a great kid. But he's a dope smoker and a social butterfly who loves to hang out with his friends on his day off. And there's no way in hell that I'm putting him in charge of the young and tender Rice-Boy Larry. I'd sooner cut out my beating heart with a warm spoon.
He looked at me with doleful eyes. "Then what should I tell him?"
I took a sip of coffee. "You can tell Ken whatever the fuck you want. Yet it makes no difference. The case is closed."
He wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his shirt. "Man, that's actually a relief. The choice is out of my hands."
I smiled at him. "That's right. When you're eighteen, you can do whatever the fuck you like. But not now. You simply don't have the maturity to go into the world on your own, and Granny's too old to handle another load of washing. It's tough enough keeping Chicken Ken's skivvies clean. So she doesn't need to worry about your dirty underwear, too."
I walked to my bedroom and turned on Fox News. Trump has a good relationship with the North Korean dictator, Kim Jong-un. The neocons and the libtards are warning that Orange Donald will give the rogue nation special favors if he becomes president in 2024. But I really don't see this as a problem. It's time to bring those communist assholes in from the cold.
At 10 p.m., I closed my eyes and slept like the dead.
