The Perfect Husband

CHAPTER 5

Grandpa’s death bummed me out cuz it meant I had to see my parents at the lawyer’s office. I never understood why the most religious people are also the angriest. I thought every mommy and daddy loved their children, but mine just treated me like everything was my fault. Like it was my fault grandpa owned their church building, or my fault that my wife determined their rent. Or my fault pappy didn’t leave them millions of dollars.

My pretty Mexican gave me more hugs in an average day than my mommy and daddy gave me my entire life. So when father slapped my wife after the lawyer read the Will, I pinned him to the wall at eye level to give him time to cool down. With my hand around his throat and his feet a foot off the floor, he calmed down real quick.

In his Will, grandpa said he “disowned” his son because he was such a disappointing arrogant asshole, so I told him the same thing: “Daddy, I hereby disown you.”

If I knew that would make my little girl so happy, I would have done it years ago. My oldest, who’s smart as a whip, stood by my side and said, “I disown you, too.” My other two kids quickly followed. My two year old girl sounded so sweet, with a hand on her hips and the other waving a finger at him.

My girl said she was the happiest wife in the world, but I don’t know: Mrs. Stevenson, the meth dealer, always seemed pretty happy when I bought my weekly bag.

My ex-father apparently didn’t like that grandpa ordered his coffin buried in the cemetery by the church, but closest to the entrance. Motion detectors triggered a laugh track so he could literally have the last laugh on his judgmental son.

Dad, as a strict social conservative, always said he opposed abortion in all cases, but now he says he would have made an exception for me. “With great power comes great responsibility — unless you’re God,” he would say in his frequent depressions.

My mother had such big white teeth and was so high-strung that she could pass for a piano. The only time I ever heard her laugh was when the attorney read out his Last Will. She and my wife were the only ones laughing since I understood less than my two year old.

For once, I wasn’t the one who jumped out the second story window. Mom hates the wheelchair she now has to ride, so I got myself one so we could form a convoy. A really short convoy. She tries to get rid of me, but I got the better scooter cuz she’s poor. She says she hates me but I don’t believe her since she’s too polite to ever say what she feels.

My kids hate my parents while I can barely care what they think — I blame all the drugs. They hate self-righteous judgmental hypocrites and blame my parents for how I turned out. I personally don’t have any complaints — like Woodstock, I can’t remember my childhood much.

I blame my wife for how my kids turned out: beautiful, wonderful, and over-achieving. They grew up hearing that if they didn’t do better in school, that they’d end up like me. Not all my neurons fire correctly, but even I knew that was bullshit.

Ever since they learned of their inheritance, my kids have loved me to death. Fortunately they don’t have to wait until my death to spend it since I’m lucky to control my bowels, much less my life. Grandma can’t even do that, and yet everyone calls me stupid.