A Post in Which I Cuss A Lot (Thanks to Martin Scorsese)

Sunday was a day in the sun. Sunday bloody Sunday. I worked in the yard and played with the boys. Their little bodies bronze against the golden blonde of their hair. The wife was at work. The boys fell asleep hard and early. I drank three beers and watched The Departed.

Yeah, so I’m the last guy in the queue for the freaking movie, so what, hate Netflix not the viewer. It was awesome.

At one point Atticus, who had been sleeping on the couch, woke up and started to dart somewhere away from where he was. He hadn’t seen me in the chair next to him. I said something and he crawled into my arms and asked for a drink. I got it.

He’s polishing off the orange juice and I follow his gaze to the screen. It’s a paused picture of JACK with a big dildo in his hands. I freak for a second. Doesn’t faze the boy.

He went back to sleep and I continued to apply the cold of my beer against the pain of my eye. Just before the movie started I had been putting something on the floor of the back porch, in the dark, and had stood up strong and fast like someone had called my freaking number at the DMV. The corner of the square table caught my right eye and told it to sit back down. It took the rest of me with it.

Fast forward an hour and there I am, watching a Scorsese film, feeling like I’m in freaking Mean Streets. What the hell is it about watching his movies that makes a guy feel tougher than he should? The voice in my head is a thug and has developed an accent of balls and blood, popping F-bombs like they’re Bon Bons.

I hear, Daddy, I want some orange juice, and I get it, but I’m thinking the whole way, with my eye socket pounding, the kids wants some fucking orange juice, I ‘ll get him some fucking orange juice.

Because that’s my thing now see, I’m feeling this film and it’s taken me in. I’m living this life of children and sunshine, but I’m deep undercover. I’m so undercover that I say fuck to describe fuck, as in, that fucking fucker Donald Duck makes some damn good orange juice.

Then it was over, and I had said too much. If I dropped another Bon Bon I would have to post this at DadCentric. Things get said there, and they stay there.

In the morning the movie will be in the mailbox, and maybe next Thursday it will be sent to you and you’ll know what the hell I’m talking about. In the meantime I’ll still wake up with a black eye, my boys will still be tan and happy, and I’ll see Donald Duck yet again, and I bet that fucker will have some damn good orange juice for me. He better, if he knows what’s good for him.

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