December 28, 2006
Originally published December 28, 2001
Today is my son's eighth birthday. This also was my weekend for visitation, according to that very expensive divorce decree I have in my possession. But my son is not here. I have presents and all sorts of nifty things for him, but he won't see any of it because my disgusting slut of an ex-wife is in the north Georgia mountains shacking up in a cabin with her unemployed, dope-smoking, piece of shit lover, along with my son, who she kidnapped as far as I am concerned. I became aware of this fact when I arrived home from work at 5:30 this evening and checked the messages on my answering machine.
I should be accustomed to this sort of treatment by now, because it has been the rule for the past five months, which is exactly how long it took her to commit adultry, beg forgiveness, change her mind, ditch the marriage and divorce me. Actually it took her only five days to ditch the marriage and move the unemployed, dope-smoking piece of shit into my ex-home while she swore out a peace warrant on me, forbidding me from setting foot on my own property or having any contact with my family while she merrily gave pussy away out of both pants legs to the aforementioned piece of shit. It took a full 30 days, start to finish, before she officially divorced me, in front of a judge who was a dead ringer for Howard Sprague from the "Andy Griffith Show." He didn't care about the adultry or the unemployed piece of shit sleeping in my bed in my house with my son living there, nor the fact that my ex-wife earns about $20,000 more per year than I do. He cared about me paying Child Support. The divorce was finalized, she took everything I once owned, except three pieces of furniture, a Holland gas grill, a set of dishes and the computer I am writing this on. And I pay Child Support
So, I am helping to finance this outing to north Georgia, with large monthly checks, supposedly spent supporting my son. I still feel the urge to go OJ about it every now and then, but I don't have a dream team to get me off the hook, so that's probably not a good idea.
The fact that my son is not here this weekend will be crushing news to Jack, the five year-old boy who lives across the street from me. He's a good young'un, missing both of his top front teeth, and eager for any male companionship he can find. He lives with his grandmother, his mother and three sisters, which keeps him bobbing like a small cork in a sea of estrogen. He calls me "Uncle," because I will toss a football with him and let him play with my son's toys when I'm here by myself, which is most of the time. Jack was hoping that Quinton, my boy, would be here all weekend, as he was supposed to be. Jack had visions of an actual male friend to play with and a spend-the-night at my house adventure, where he could have his brain sucked out by Play Station 2 games and the "Kid's Cuisine" TV dinners I fix for them to eat. Plus, when they finish a bath, I let them run around in their underwear instead of wearing those wimpy pajamas women insist they cover themselves with.
Yeah, Jack will be very disappointed. So am I. But when that cunt of an ex-wife of mine pokes around with a sharp stick, she doesn't care how many eyes she hits.
All content © Rob Smith