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October 1, 2007

Moving In…

I looked at my face in the mirror like, What have I done? How could I be so stupid to be have laid my daughter? Granted, she wanted it, and at the time I wasn’t absolutely certain she was my daughter. Everything spiraled out of control when I realized the truth. I no longer know what to do with myself, except that I know I can never see my daughter again. Unfortunately, Morty Melendez has called my cell phone 15 times in the past 12 hours. What can I tell him? “Yes, I finally saw my daughter and I banged her in ways that many states have outlawed”? Actually, that isn’t such a bad idea.

Update – Later — I just called Morty Melendez. It didn’t go well.

“Mr. McDürchstein, I’ve been trying to reach you—”

“I know, and—”

“Listen, I spoke with Renal and she tells me you two saw each other.”

“Yeah.”

“And…how did that go?” he asked in a smarmy, knowing kind of way.

“Very, very badly.”

Morty chuckled. “We can make this go away, Mr. McDürchstein.”

“We can?!”

“Quite easily.”

“How?”

“Allow your daughter to move in with her. Share your life with her. Make her understand who you are, and you try to understand her.”

“I, uh…I think we’ve done enough ‘understanding’ for a lifetime.”

“Look, McDürchstein, if you don’t do this and you’ll be sued for all you’re worth, which ain’t much. We got pitchers.”

“You’re…blackmailing me into spending time with my daughter.”

“Would you have done it any other way?”

“In more ways than one.”

“That’s what she said,” Morty laughed. “Renal will be at your apartment this afternoon. Welcome her with open arms and use protection.” He hung up.

“Fuck you, motherfucker!” I yelled at the dial tone.

Now I just have to wait for her to show up…

Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 1, 2007 11:17 AM
 |  Don't Call Me Daughter  | Digg It

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