Tied

I'm not gonna wish you happiness, 'cause you've already got that. So I'll just say, may the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon our face. May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live. May there be a generation of children on the children of your children. May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent. And may the saddest day of your and Kate's future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.

I have to ask, because in my experience, women will tell you to do something and then slit your fucking throat when you actually do it. Since you were supposed to know they didn’t really want you to do it. That they don’t really mean what they say.

What are you giving him?" She grins smugly. "Only the greatest gift a woman can give the man she loves." I take my best guess. "Anal?" Kate covers her eyes. Dee-Dee's smile turns into a scowl. "No--pig. I'm giving him the gift of health. My acupuncturist cleared her schedule. She's going to work on Matthew the whole day." I laugh. Because this explains so much. "That's your gift? Really? It's the guy's birthday and you're gonna make him get needles stuck in his face all day? What are you gonna get him for Christmas - a colonoscopy?

In a louder voice than I’d intended, I say, “Hey, beautiful.” “Shhh!” She attacks. “If you wake that baby, I’ll pluck out every pubic hair you have the next time you fall asleep.” My eyes widen. She’s been spending way too much time with Delores these days.

It doesn’t count as a lie if the person you’re lying to knows it’s a lie.

Anyway, no girl wants to bang a guy in a banana hammock. I don’t care if you’re built like a brick shithouse and hung like a freaking horse—if you’re wearing a man-thong? You look like a tool.

Your wife is a psycho path. I wouldn't fuck her with your dick. She's probably pull some booby trap shit and shove some razor-blades up her twat to try and slice my cock off.

And when you get married, the most important thing isn't being in love. It's making sure you marry your best friend. A partner - the person you want to share the good times, the shitty times, and everything in between with.

See this ring? It means I belong to him. And the tattoo of my name on his arm means he belongs to me. All of him. His dick is a compass, and I'm due north- it only points to me.

Yes—and that’s exactly what Daddy’s going to be getting if he doesn’t stop laughing right now.” James’s eyes go wide and he tries to warn me. “No poosy, Daddy.

I squint. “Married?” Lily nods enthusiastically. “At the Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. We took some great pictures. And now I’m Mrs. Billy Warren.” Nope, still can’t wrap my head around it. “Married? Really?” Warren’s expression goes from sappy to annoyed. “Yeah, Long Duck Fuckin’ Dong—married. What’s your problem?

Congratulations on your marriage--may it be long and fun and frisky--and may you always look at one another the way you do today.

Then I pace the floor, rocking him softly in my arms, patting his ass. You know I must be really desperate—because I try singing: Hush, little baby, don’t say a word Daddy’s gonna buy you a . . . I stop—because why the fuck would any baby want a mockingbird? None of those nursery rhymes make any goddamn sense. I don’t know any other lullabies, so I go for the next best thing, “Enter Sandman” by Metallica: Take my hand, We’re off to never-never land . . .

Warren’s wavy, light brown locks are less tamed than usual. They’re higher—poofier—like an old lady fresh from the hairdresser. He pats the top of his head self-consciously. “I forgot my gel. But it’s cool—chicks dig the curls.” “Yeah, if it’s 1998 and your name is Justin Timberlake.” - Drew Evans

Steven’s words slush together as he gets to his feet. “Crossing this one off the bucket list.” Then he unbuckles his belt and grabs the waist of his pants—yanking the suckers down to his ankles—tighty whities and all. Every guy in the car holds up his hands to try to block the spectacle. We groan and complain. “My eyes! They burn!” “Put the boa constrictor back in his cage, man.” “This is not the ass I planned on seeing tonight.” Our protests fall on deaf ears. Steven is a man on a mission. Wordlessly, he squats and shoves his lilywhite ass out the window—mooning the gaggle of grannies in the car next to us. I bet you thought this kind of stuff only happened in movies. He grins while his ass blows in the wind for a good ninety seconds, ensuring optimal viewage. Then he pulls his slacks up, turns around, and leans out the window, laughing. “Enjoying the full moon, ladies?” Wow. Steven usually isn’t the type to visually assault the elderly. Without warning, his crazy cackling is cut off. He’s silent for a beat, then I hear him choke out a single strangled word. “Grandma?” Then he’s diving back into the limo, his face grayish, dazed, and totally sober. He stares at the floor. “No way that just happened.” Matthew and I look at each other hopefully, then we scramble to the window. Sure enough, in the driver’s seat of that big old Town Car is none other than Loretta P. Reinhart. Mom to George; Grandma to Steven. What are the fucking odds, huh? Loretta was always a cranky old bitch. No sense of humor. Even when I was a kid she hated me. Thought I was a bad influence on her precious grandchild. Don’t know where she got that idea from. She moved out to Arizona years ago. Like a lot of women her age, she still enjoys a good tug on the slot machine—hence her frequent trips to Sin City. Apparently this is one such trip. Matthew and I wave and smile and in fourth-grader-like, singsong harmony call out, “Hi, Mrs. Reinhart.” She shakes one wrinkled fist in our direction. Then her poofy-haired companion in the backseat flips us the bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. The two of us collapse back into our seats, laughing hysterically.

Now, young Skywalker, your training is complete. Tonight—you become a Jedi.” - Drew Evans

It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.

Steven’s words slush together as he gets to his feet. “Crossing this one off the bucket list.” Then he unbuckles his belt and grabs the waist of his pants—yanking the suckers down to his ankles—tighty whities and all. Every guy in the car holds up his hands to try to block the spectacle. We groan and complain. “My eyes! They burn!” “Put the boa constrictor back in his cage, man.” “This is not the ass I planned on seeing tonight.” Our protests fall on deaf ears. Steven is a man on a mission. Wordlessly, he squats and shoves his lilywhite ass out the window—mooning the gaggle of grannies in the car next to us. I bet you thought this kind of stuff only happened in movies. He grins while his ass blows in the wind for a good ninety seconds, ensuring optimal viewage. Then he pulls his slacks up, turns around, and leans out the window, laughing. “Enjoying the full moon, ladies?” Wow. Steven usually isn’t the type to visually assault the elderly. Without warning, his crazy cackling is cut off. He’s silent for a beat, then I hear him choke out a single strangled word. “Grandma?” Then he’s diving back into the limo, his face grayish, dazed, and totally sober. He stares at the floor. “No way that just happened.” Matthew and I look at each other hopefully, then we scramble to the window. Sure enough, in the driver’s seat of that big old Town Car is none other than Loretta P. Reinhart. Mom to George; Grandma to Steven. What are the fucking odds, huh? .... Matthew and I wave and smile and in fourth-grader-like, singsong harmony call out, “Hi, Mrs. Reinhart.” She shakes one wrinkled fist in our direction. Then her poofy-haired companion in the backseat flips us the bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. The two of us collapse back into our seats, laughing hysterically.

Steven’s words slush together as he gets to his feet. “Crossing this one off the bucket list.” Then he unbuckles his belt and grabs the waist of his pants—yanking the suckers down to his ankles—tighty whities and all. Every guy in the car holds up his hands to try to block the spectacle. We groan and complain. “My eyes! They burn!” “Put the boa constrictor back in his cage, man.” “This is not the ass I planned on seeing tonight.” Our protests fall on deaf ears. Steven is a man on a mission. Wordlessly, he squats and shoves his lilywhite ass out the window—mooning the gaggle of grannies in the car next to us. I bet you thought this kind of stuff only happened in movies. He grins while his ass blows in the wind for a good ninety seconds, ensuring optimal viewage. Then he pulls his slacks up, turns around, and leans out the window, laughing. “Enjoying the full moon, ladies?” Wow. Steven usually isn’t the type to visually assault the elderly. Without warning, his crazy cackling is cut off. He’s silent for a beat, then I hear him choke out a single strangled word. “Grandma?” .... Matthew and I wave and smile and in fourth-grader-like, singsong harmony call out, “Hi, Mrs. Reinhart.” She shakes one wrinkled fist in our direction. Then her poofy-haired companion in the backseat flips us the bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. The two of us collapse back into our seats, laughing hysterically.

See, children are beautiful. Precious. Angelic. Particularly when they’re asleep. If they’re disturbed mid-sleep-cycle, however? They’re monsters. Irritable, angry little beasts who bear a striking resemblance to gremlins fed after midnight.