May 26, 2009
Originally published March 9, 2004
If I have one lesson from my life to pass on to my boy, it would be the will to win. Quinton doesn't have that hot, burning desire etched on his soul right now. He's been enrolled in too many sports by the ex-wife. SHE is the reason he is there and SHE is the ultimate soccer mom. Quinton could give a shit.
I do not believe that I'm looking at a healthy situation here. I do not believe that Quinton needs a 24-7 job of going to school and playing sports when he's just 10 years old.
Quinton could have won the State Championship in wrestling last year if he gave a shit about winning. But, he didn't. And he doesn't today. Losing doesn't bother him. He went out there on the mat and acted as if he wanted the whole thing over with, as quickly as possible. His mama was in the stands cheering her ass off (she is a vocal soccer-mom) and she provided refreshments for the entire team when the match was over. She never saw a hint of what a pussy she is making out of my boy.
Quinton got pinned because he LET the other guy do it. He didn't give a shit about that wrestling match. He just punched his time-card, showed up and put on the show. I wanted to vomit.
I've wrestled with my boy. I know how strong he is (pure muscle and bone) and I also know that nobody in his weight class could touch him if he were fired-up and determined to win. But he doesn't care. He's got no reason to.
Sports are work-sites his mama sends him to after school.
I see so much potential in my boy that will be totally wasted because he doesn't care. I had to WANT what I got in life and try harder than anybody else. Quinton just thinks "oobalhdee, ooblahdah" life goes on, yeah, and he couldn't care less about any sport he plays.
Right after I recovered from prostate surgery (actually, I wasn't recovered. I still wore a hand-grenade, which vacuumed about a quart of pink fluid from my guts every day and I had a cathater bag strapped to my leg) I took Quinton to a soccer game. His mama didn't show up for the kickoff, because she was spending the night with her new lover and must have over-fucked and overslept that night.
Quinton scored the first goal of the game. Jennifer wasn't there to see it. She pulled up about ten minutes later and staggered out of her sports car with a Burger King cup in her hand. I don't know what she was drinking (probably iced tea) but I knew that it was a beverage bought from desperation. Jennifer NEVER went to Burger King.
She walked up to me and asked, "How's the game going?"
"We're ahead 1-0 right now and Quinton scored the goal," I replied.
She let out a "GOOOOO QUINTON!" yell and started to walk toward the grandstands. I stopped her. "Jennifer, would you please go to the bathroom and wash the cum out of your hair? If I can see it, other people will, too. Either you've been eating glazed doughnuts, or you've been sucking a dick all night long. Go look in a mirror."
She went to the bathroom and returned a few minutes later. She missed Quinton's second goal while she was washing cum out of her hair. But her hair looked good when she finally returned to be a soccer mom.
And you wonder why I call her a bloodless cunt? There's the real soccer mom.
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