Please tell me that’s Justin.
“Yeah, I think it is. He seems to know me.”
“I’m fucking with you, Ass! Course it’s my kid. I made him.”
“With my dick.”
“Me and Justy, father-son time. See, you think I’m a sleazehound, but I’m a family kinda guy.”
Uh-huh. What does father-son time entail?
“He’s gonna wander around unsupervised all day while I do drugs and jam with my friends.”
I don’t think that’s optimal.
“Well, what the fuck did you do with your dad?”
Sat in tense silence wishing we could speak to one another.
“Yeah, that blows. My version’s better. Maybe I get the kid laid.”
“He’s old enough. What is he, 15?”
Eight. He’s, like, eight years old Billy.
“Never too early for skank.”
Eight is too early for skank.
“Wasn’t for me. Little League snack bar, man. Nothing draws skank like a snack bar. Probably cuz a lot of ’em aren’t allowed in real restaurants any more, but who knows with skank?”
Billy, please talk about anything else. Think of the child.
“You’re right. Hey, I’m famous.”
To certain people.
“Maybe I hook Justy up with one of them Hollywood starlets. What’s Kristy McNichol’s number?”
I don’t know, and–once again–he is eight.
“Fine, I’ll bang her.”