February 06, 2007
Call the cops. I was robbed.
Originally published April 20, 2002
My ex-wife showed up unannounced at 9:30 this morning to collect my son. I was cooking bacon and eggs for the boys, because my son had his friend, Jack, spend the night with him. They slept on the inflatable bed I have, but they conked out before I could inflate it, so they slept on the floor last night, on top of the uninflated bed. They slept like a pair of rocks, too. They were hungry this morning, but I never got the chance to feed them. Bacon was still sizzling in the frying pan and biscuits were in the oven when Jack ran home and the bloodless cunt tooled away in her really cool sports car with my son on board.
I went into the usual fit of depression I experience when my son is taken from me. But this has been a well-used and well-enjoyed home for a week. I have the wall-smudges and dirty handprints to prove it, too. God, I miss that boy already.
My son left his bicycle in the garage and a pile of dirty clothes in the bathroom. I suppose I'll have to return those things eventually. But the cunt will come to retrieve them, because she doesn't want me around her house, where the unemployed, dope-smoking lover stays. She's afraid that I'll shoot the bastard if I have a gun, or simply liver-punch the diseased piece of shit and drown him in his own vomit if I am unarmed.
She's right to keep me away from there.
All content © Rob Smith