By Mr. Fish
Where’s your hot dog, honey?
I’m sitting on it, Mom. Dad wouldn’t give
me the fucking ketchup and the goddamn
thing was getting cold.
Motherfucking thing, dear, please.
He’s sitting on it, woman! Now leave him
alone! Son! Just consider it!
Why not? You get a penis and your mother
and me get to see you holding hands with
somebody with breasts and lipstick and her
She’ll put beard burns on your tummy!
Mrs. Leviticus has such bad 5 o’clock
shadows under her arms that whenever she
bowls she catches fire.
Why can’t you just act normal for two
seconds, you big sissy?!
Shut up old man and pass me the lousy
Just do it for your dear old dad!
If you get married you’ll be Fish the
Mustache, you fucking little useless piece of
no good dog shit! I thought I raised you
All right, give me the ketchup bottle and I’ll
go down and suck her dick. But I’m not
making any promises!
That’s my boy!
I love you, Dad.
And I love you, Son.
Hey, that reminds me, honey. Do you
remember that story that ran in the paper last
Thanksgiving about Mr. Kirby, the widower
over on Dudley who trained his cat to use a
regular toilet instead of a litter box?
It turns out that the only reason he did it was
so he could sneak into the cat’s bedroom
whenever the cat was taking a dump and try
on its underwear and dance around in front
of its mirror.