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  • Tara R


Rise and shine like a Roy. Mom: Time to wake up kids, chop, chop. First born son: Am I not woke, mother? I’m so woke I make Roy G Biv look like a film negative. I’m so many colors woke, the pantone created a square for me called ride me into a freaking pot of gold

Second born son: Can you please shut up? I’m meta-tweeting.

Dad: Shareholder meeting in the kitchen in 5. I’m making eggs. First born son: Eggs? Why so basic, dad? So monosyllabic? Let’s think big -- morning jolt, cupped lightening, something poached or smashed…

Housekeeper: We also have General Mills. Second born son (flirty): Oh General, behave! You have the sugar to make my corn pop. A regular tony tigress to stir my honey o’s…

Dad: Jesus H. Grape Nuts on a popsicle stick, can we get a nutrition proxy for this numbskull? You’ll have eggs or I’ll sue your sorry ass. Or does my wittle baby boy need a bear hug?

Second born son: Wow, don’t go all beast, dad. Your eggs just look runny as f-ck. Daughter: What’s your play here, second born? You gunning to spill milk all over my tonal Free city pantsuit and ruin my day? Second born son (while air guitar-ing): Paranoia, the destroyer ….

Daughter: Dad, I think he’s freebasing his toothpaste again.

\ First born son: Ok, is this meeting even happening, or should I get on the blower with my barnacle for brains, bitch of a teacher to let her know like, hey, I’ll be late to school because my pop needs to brain dump ideas on how to get a world’s best dad mug? Second born son: Yeah, Daddy-o, all this forced family fun has me thinking we’re going to Disneyland, except, ya know, the one where dreams go to die. Dad: It’s about screentime, you colossal ignorami!! Your mother and I both think that -- Second born son (bored): Blah, blah, blah… let’s talk about something that’s trending. Dad: Hey! Don’t use that tone with us! We’re your parents! First born son: Eh, it’s more of an advisory position. Not even a majority vote. But hey, man, I get it. Start small; fix things from the inside. You can’t cook a feast without a recipe.

Daughter: Recipe? What’s a recipe? Second born son: For you? Four parts the blood of orphans, one part devil’s spawn, one eighth of a chewed off love bracelet, and a big ol’ shot of tabasco for some sweetness. Yummy!

Mother: Family!! Enough!

Dad: This is war! YOU ARE ABUSING YOUR SCREENTIME! We’re under attack! First born son: Ok, dad. Let's do this. I'll f-ck off first period. We'll squeeze some juice, dunk some dishes, control the narrative. Second born son: Lookie at you – all catnipped up on domestic collaboration. Rowr!

Daughter: Just give me the green light on this, dad, and we can kill THIS,

Second born son: Affirmative, big daddy. She is THE best at making things disappear. Just ask the libido of every male she's ever met, except the ones that respond to "good doggy!" Booyah! Dad (exasperated): Meeting adjourned, f-ckwads. We'll reconvene at dinner. Go brush your choppers; you are not serious people. .


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