I was going to start this post off with, “As you know I hate my father,” but then I realized I often start off my posts or paragraphs with “As you know,” so this time I started it off with “I was going to start this post off with,” which is essentially the same as starting it off with, “As you know,” but different in that I’m about to explain something further right after I end this overly long, rife with grammatical errors, perfectly syntax’d as me sentence that if Christopher reads he will no doubtedly hate.
When thinking about how I would start this off I came up with, “As you know,” but then realized I do that often. I didn’t always do that. When I started this blog I am more than sure I didn’t start off by saying, “As you know my name is Quentin,” because why in the hell would you ever know that? Although it would be kind of funny for me to have started off a blog that way. But kind of funny has never been my style. That’s about two times as funny as I like to be.
Also, “As you know” is kind of arrogant, especially in the way I use it always referring to something about me. Why would I assume you know anything about me, even things I’ve already said? Do I expect the reader, you, sitting there with a pad and paper jotting down every detail of my life down to the minutest thing, like how I like to put on my right sock first and then my left sock because if I don’t I fear that will be the day I meet the woman of my dreams but because of the cosmic imbalanced I caused due to putting on my socks wrong every time I try to make conversation with her I just come off (for lack of the energy and political correctness to use a better word) retarded, which causes her to run away because her parents were murdered by retards – what, retards can’t be murderers too? Well if you think that you’re just being highly offensive to the capabilities of the mentally disabled. (If the reader is really paying attention they’ll take note to the use of “minutest thing“ which then goes on to describe something incredibly convoluted) and do take note of that, it will be on the pop quiz at the end of the post.
“I thought this was going to be somehow related to Father’s Day,” says the reader who hopefully isn’t my father, and if is my father should be thanking God that so far it has nothing to do with Father’s Day. The last thing on the “As you know” topic is that as you know (used without irony) I constantly poke fun at not having any readers, which is exactly why I can use “As you know” because I’m the only one reading this, and of course I would already know everything I’m about to write (that’s only true 8% of the time, like how today was planned to write about Father’s Day and as you disappointingly know now has very little to do with Father’s Day). So alas, we finally know why I say “As you know” so often (not alas, at last) no, I meant alas. It’s thoroughly unfortunate that we now know why I say “As you know” so often. It means we finally get to the Father’s Day theme.
The day upon which I write this is Father’s Day 2011. I have mixed feelings about Father’s Day. I like the idea of Father’s. I like the idea of multiple father’s, assumingly alluding to my devout belief that gay marriage should be legal and those gay men should be able to have a child – not just adopt, but I want God to go back in time and make it possible for a man to give birth to a child, presumably out the butthole. But gay marriage isn’t enough for me, and by multiple I didn’t just mean two, I meant multiple as in two or more. What I’m now fighting for is something much funnier than gay marriage (not that gay marriage is funny) well not yet, but once is becomes legal in more places it will become more funnier. What I’m fighting for is gay Mormon marriage. Mormon’s can have many wives, and I believe gay Mormon’s should be able to have many gay husbands. Frankly I don’t want to live in a nation where one man can’t marry eight other men.
I don’t know what Father’s Day means to you, and I’m not going to tell you what it should mean to you, although it’s kind of simple, it has the word Father’s and Day in it, you should be able to put two and two together and realize it’s a day about Father’s and look no further into it as I’m about to do. To me Father’s Day is a constant reminder that I have no father (constant? It’s only 24 hours long) And for that 24 hours I’m constantly thinking about the pain that is having no father. You know, except for the 10 hours I spend sleeping, the 4 hours I spend masturbating – my masturbation numbers go up with Father’s Day, I’m not sure why, but it might have something to do with trying to kill as many sperm as possible so my genetics end with me (morbid) – the 3 hours I spend eating and doing nothing but thinking about eating, the 5 hours I nap, and the 6 hours I spend listening to podcasts or watching TV. But for those negative 4 hours I do nothing but think the painful thoughts that having no father arises.
Okay, so maybe Father’s Day isn’t so painful for me. Maybe I just exaggerated the pain to make up for the attention that my father never gave me. For my life was deprived completely from the joy that having a father can bring (cough sympathy whore cough) So what if I want some sympathy, I think I deserve it. I had no father to teach me to shave, to teach me to drive, to steal playboys from, to get drunk and tell me that all women are whores and things were much simpler back in his Navy days when it was just him and the boys, to tell me that masturbating is okay but I shouldn’t do it at Grandma’s, to be a big strong burly man that eats meat, and mistreats women, and plays sports and slaps their buddies on the ass because that’s what men do best. But I never got any of that. Instead I’m a stupid sensitive boy raised by a woman. A woman with boobies and a vagina that I once accidentally saw at the age of six and it scared me and scarred me for life. A woman who taught me that caring for people is important, and that I should never mistreat a lady – she’s a little more flexible on cunts…kidding – and that I should believe in myself – that one didn’t work out too well – and that I have the ability to make some girl really happy, and that someday I should strive to be the best husband possible. A woman that instilled in me absolutely no manly qualities except the best one, one I firmly believe I can do, being that I can make some girl the happiest girl to ever live, and there are so many things that men are supposed to be, but because of the way I was raised that’s the thing I feel most strongly about. I didn’t have a father to teach me how to be a man. I had a mother to teach me how to be a real man, a real sensitive girly man who knows nothing but how to be sweet to that one special girl, and I wouldn’t have it any other way…except I could have done with more Playboys around the house.
I love you, Mom (where was this on Mother’s Day?)