How Was Your Weekend?

17 Oct 2011 by Dear Bad Dad, 1 Comment »

Loverboy - Working for the Weekend album cover

Dear Bad Dad,

How was your weekend?

Mine? Two words: AWE SOME.

Slept in Saturday ay-em. Had one too many (OK, for reals, SIX too many) Happy Hour Jägerbombs on Friday. Christ, I LOVE Jägerbombs, but they don’t love me, knowwhatI’msayin?

Saturday, caught Alabama/Ole Miss (GO BAMA!), then chillaxed a bit, got my drink on, and hooked up with this hottie I met at B-Dawg’s place.

Sunday, two words: Packers-Rams! (GO PACK!)

Hope yours was even 1% as EPIC as mine.



Richmond, VA


MY WEEKEND WAS FAN-FRIGGIN-TASTIC! If my weekend was a Russian supermodel, then Svetlana was wined, dined and satisfied, knowwhatI’msayin? (To be clear, I’m saying my weekend was like having sexual intercourse with a very attractive woman of Russian extraction whose name is Svetlana.)

Now, let ME get reals, J-Dawg Jeremy.

Long ago, Dear Bad Dad made a pact with himself: the next person who asked “How was your weekend?” would get roundhouse kicked in the nut sack. Twice. (So get on your knees and thank the Internet for keeping your balls far away from my boot.)

You don’t care how my weekend was. You just wanted to use that opening to tell me about YOUR weekend. So bravo, Jeremy. Your weekend was awesome. Whoop dee ding dong doo.

But now that you asked, sit down, shut up, and learn why you should NEVER ask a Dad about his weekend:

Unlike you, Dear Bad Dad did not sleep in …

… because The Boy and The Girl were up with the sun. As they are every Saturday and Sunday morning. The Missus refuses to let me get their blood tested for rooster DNA. But I know it’s in there. I KNOW it. And since Oreos and chocolate milk aren’t considered a healthy breakfast by a certain The Missus who shall remain nameless, guess who got up to feed ‘em? (To be clear, it was me.)

Unlike you, Dear Bad Dad did not “catch the game” …

… unless you count The Boy’s pee-wee soccer match on Saturday where Brad Brad the Aggro Dad punched Jeff Jeff the Volunteer Ref after he gave Grayson (Brad’s mouth-breathing homunculus) a much-deserved red card. To their credit, the pee-wees played their game about as well as Ole Miss played theirs. And BTW, the soccer tykes read at a higher level than ‘Bama’s offensive line.

Unlike you, Dear Bad Dad did not shtup a random skank …

… since Dear Bad Dad is happily married to a loving, sexy, kind, way smart woman. A woman who will beat Dear Bad Dad to death with a tire iron then bury the pulverized corpse in a shallow grave in Pacoima if Dear Bad Dad even THINKS about making a joke which involves Dear Bad Dad shtupping a skank.

True, Dear Bad Dad may have a twinge of envy for your carefree weekends. But in the end, you can keep your naïve, self-absorbed, game-watching, ho-banging, STD-spreading, soon-to-be-AA-attending life.

Cuz unlike you, Jeremy, Dear Bad Dad did not spend his weekend wearing one of these (we both know you did):

Trilby hat

So Dear Bad Dad can hold his head up on Monday and say, “At least I didn’t spend my weekend looking like an utter douche.”

One Comment

  1. Not A Mom says:

    If it makes you feel any better, I think your children probably aren’t rooster hybrids.

    But stranger things have happened.


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