A drunk dad tells me a dope story

The other night I was at the bar, y’know, chillin’ and whatnot, when I struck up a conversation with the most awesome dude ever, who happened to be probably four or five pints down. So he was feeling good, and boy oh boy was he talkative (which in this case made for a great night!)

The convo began with what Michael Jordan was up to that night, since he has 780 million dollars to his name. The guy kept saying, “If you had 780 million dollars, what would you be doing tonight?” to which I just laughed. I couldn’t even answer. From there we went to Louis Farrakhan, then Cleveland Ohio, his hatred for dating, his pot smoking father, and lastly, to his own son. And this is when things got good.

He said his son lives in Ohio, and that he paid all this money ($1600) to send his son to tennis camp (the son is eleven.) As puberty would have it, his pre-teen boy has some acne issues, and apparently the kids in camp had been teasing him about it. So one day, the son snaps back and tells one kid that the pimples on his face looks like the kid’s mom’s, uh…ladyparts. (I admit, my teenage self came out and burst into laughter. I mean, to say your zits look like somebody’s mom’s vagina is pure adolescent boy genius.)

So of course, a fight ensues and the son is kicked out of the camp.

His mom calls his father in Brooklyn, while at work and explains what happened. The guy explains to me that he immediately books a flight to Ohio, and is on a plane three hours later. That night, his ex-wife got a knock at the door. All he said was, “Tell him to come outside.”

The boy comes out and gets a good old fashion whoopin’ (the guy said he put “$1600 worth in his ass.”) Then the father tells him to write an essay on what happened, why it happened, and how it could have been avoided. Then he gets right back on a flight to Brooklyn, to be at work the next morning.

The next day while in his office, he calls his son and tells him to fax the essay. He does. The father edits it, and sends it back, with rewrite instructions. This goes on for the rest of the day. I’m sure the boy was in tears, probably wishing for more body shots. (Anything is better than writing!)

After telling me the story, the drunk guy orders one more beer, then turns to me and says, “You know, it’s not just about hitting his body. I have to hit his thought process. I have to change the way he thinks. That’s my greatest job. And if he thought that just because I’m in Brooklyn and he’s in Ohio, that he wont be parented by his dad, now he knows otherwise.” Then he said something about being from St. Clair, in Cleveland (Bone Thugs) and how his daddy aint play, so he don’t either. And all I could do was nod, and smile, and be proud of him.


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