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Never before had he seen so much ass flaunted out in public. The swimsuit hid no curves and bared nothing to the imagination. It was truly a statement of confidence and sexuality that is hard to find.
“Dude on what planet did you think it was a good idea to wear a swimsuit to a child’s birthday party?”
“It’s European and looks good for all the mamis out here,” replied Frank.
“Christ. Put a towel on.”
Frank was his high school baseball teammate, best friend, and his son’s godfather; he’d been a goddamn embarrassment in the role pretty much from the moment he’d been named. He proudly was the only person to drunk drive himself to the hospital for the birth and stumbled in mid-push to get a face full of crowning vagina.
Four of the five swear words his son had let out could be attributed to Frank, as well as his first two minor head injuries. Last week he thought inviting Frank to the birthday his son had been invited to at a neighborhood pool would be a good idea, as he didn’t know any of the other parents and needed a backup plan to talk to during the party. Within two minutes he realized he’d made a cataclysmic mistake.
“Lighten the fuck up man” retorted Frank, a bit too loudly for comfort that his F-bomb didn’t ring in the ears of at least one of the party attendees. “I broke plans to come with you guys, remember? Besides, the kids love me.”
“Your plans were to come over to my house and watch the Texas game because you don’t have cable.”
“Exactly. Now relax and at least try to let your kid have some fun, even if you don’t.”
“Birthday parties as a parent aren’t about fun; they’re about survival and having your kid entertained on someone else’s tab for once.” He was only half joking.
At this point in fatherhood he took specific goals into birthday party attendance. First and foremost that his son enjoy himself without being a hellbeast to others. That means not being the screaming kid, or the one who spills his Capri Sun all over the one of the other parents’ khakis. Just because it’s understandable doesn’t mean it’s not unpleasant.
Second, don’t be responsible for the embarrassing moment that defines the birthday party. The kid opening the birthday child’s presents, the one who knocks the cake off the table, the parent who says something derogatory a little too loudly about another child; just can’t be that father/son combo.
Finally, if possible, have some positive interactions with the other parents, because you’re going to be around these people more than you think. He quickly realized that inviting Frank might’ve jeopardized all three goals. While it was admittedly nice to have another set of eyes on his offspring in a public setting, especially a pool, extending an invite to his best friend potentially could do more harm than good.
Directing his attention to his son’s half-ass doggy paddle in the kiddie pool, being observed diligently by his flask-sipping godfather, he decided to engage some of the other parents in conversation to avoid ever having to rely on Frank as a party companion. He gave his son a hearty wave and a “doing great buddy!” though truthfully his floatie vest simply made him look like a cork bobbing, and walked over to a decently chill looking dude wearing a golf polo.
“So, which one is yours?”
Chill golf polo guy pointed to a kid playing with dirt in a flower bed adjacent to the pool. “That’s mine. Jeremy. He’s more into ball sports than swimming, kinda bored here.”
He looked over just as Jeremy stuck a flower into his mouth, gave it a long chew, and swallowed.
“Ah yeah, I can see that,” he replied, beginning to size up Jeremy’s dad as the kinda dude to start up a travel t-ball team.
Please kill me
Jeremy’s Dad walked away to discuss with his son why he was eating flowers like Cheeze Itz, and he was forced back into the awkward middle school dance-like action of “who do I stand by?” that a child’s birthday party can lead to. Before he had to make a choice between three moms discussing Chip & Joanna Gaines or a dad so buried in his phone that there was zero clue he knew where his child was, he was approached by his son in search of a towel and accompanied by Frank, blissfully ignorant of the fact that he should be beyond ashamed of his godfather.
“Hey daddy! I’m cold!”
Not yet being four years old and having no decent judgement of character, his son was unaware that Frank was first-team all trash and loved it when he was around.
“Buddy, you’re killin it out there!” said Frank, giving him the double finger pistols. It was common knowledge that he exclusively called him “buddy” because he’d forgotten his given name of “Grant” more times than can be excused.
“Thanks Uncle Frank!” said Grant, then looked at his father with a mischievous smile and said “Hey daddy, Uncle Frank said ‘holy shit’, that’s a bad word!”
Grimacing and looking around to see if anyone heard, he responded “Son, what’s our rule about Uncle Frank?”
“Never repeat anything he says!”
“That’s exactly right buddy.” The long-form version of the rule was never repeat anything Frank says or does, as it will only worsen your life and general upbringing, but he would take the short-form version due to his son’s limited grasp on the English language. “You looked like a young Michael Phelps in there!”
Frank interjected “He got like two DUIs.” Both father and son stared blankly at him.
At that moment the birthday boy’s mom shouted “Ok who’s ready for cake and ice cream!” and at least twenty cries of “Walk, don’t run!” went unheard as the kids (and Frank) raced to the picnic table near the pool, looking to tear the cake decorated with fire trucks to shreds like they were hyenas and the cake was an antelope carcass.
Grant ended up shoulder to shoulder with the birthday boy; a position that left his father a bit uncomfortable. From that spot he could easily pull an impulse blow out of the candles, or reach his hand in like a savage and destroy the cake. Some of the parents got their phone out to record the impending tune, while he just tried to Jedi mind-trick his kid into not taking this cake ceremony into his own hands.
Trust the process son. This is his cake. Yours will come.
The birthday mom seemed to realize that the kids were sitting around the table staring at the cake like a grandpa would stare at a pair of pleated pants on sale, and she started to begin “Haaaappppyyy Birthhh…”
A balloon exploded, eliciting surprised and excited reactions from the kids circling the cake.
Grant dropped a haymaker.
Frank stared at the floor. .
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