Sugar and Spice
"Yo," says Unsavory Character #1, "I had to get away from that girl, yo!"
"I saved you, dog," says Unsavory Character #2.
"Yo, she won't leave me alone."
"Horrible, dog. Horrible."
"Yo," says #1, "she's gon' be botherin' me on MySpace all the time now, yo."
"Yo, I saved you, dog. I saved you."
You know, I sit and listen to this shit at the front door -- one Guido intercepts another as he's on the threshold of drunkenly acceding to the blurred wiles of some less-than-aesthetically-pleasing girl -- and you'd think I could identify. You'd think I'd look on, and listen, and laugh, because I've been in the same situation myself, many, many times. You'd think, as a group of guys standing at the door, that the tension would be lifted as we all shared one of those moments common to everyone with a penis. You'd think, right?
Yes, you would, but I'd be a world class hypocrite if it were easy for me to reach that point with every Tom, Dick and Carmine coming up front for a breather. Sure, we've got some things in common, and, on occasion, it's kind of fun to come out of character and laugh together, but it's hard for me. Hard to do that with the sort of people I'm dealing with at the club, because we have so few shared points of reference between us. For that, of course, I'm eternally thankful.
In actuality, the first person I thought about, when listening to this asinine exchange, was the father of the girl in question. It has to be fucking horrific for the guy, when you really consider the situation. I mean, your wife -- or "baby mama," as the case may be -- has a kid, and for several years, your lovely little daughter is the sunshine of your Staten Island life. Ribbons, bows, sunshine, rainbows, puppies, kittens, Barbies, tea sets, and all the rest, right?
Fast forward twenty years, and now she's on the pill, desperately chasing some tattooed, semi-literate warehouse helper around a Manhattan nightclub, and, sadly enough, she's actually striking out. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is that what you had in mind? I'd fucking shoot myself if it ever came to that. I really would. Hollow points, too, just to make sure. Your precious little girl aspires to spread her legs for that guy. Worse still, she's being rejected!
Now, I'm not married, nor do I have any kids, but I have some very young nieces and nephews, and I simply can't fucking imagine what that could possibly be like for their parents. Seriously. I mean, I'd rather my kid simply become a smack addict and just go ahead and die than have my daughter turn out to be some random cum receptacle who frequents clubs, blowing every Guido who shows her a bag.
Fuck, man. It's depressing. So much preparation goes into life. You get your own shit together, you piece together a life, and then, should you possess even the tiniest shred of decency, you try and do the same for your kids. And what happens? You end up with a Guido. Or a slut. A slut! Can you imagine what it'd be like to even think that? My daughter is a slut. My daughter sucks lots of cock. My daughter is a desperate loser who chases Guidos around nightclubs.
And yeah, I know, not everyone comes from a happy home. Lord knows I didn't. People get abused. They devalue themselves, and their lives. Addiction is a disease. Blah, blah, fucking blah. Not everyone's parents give a shit. Not everyone plans ahead. But what of those who do? Save a bullet for me, I say.
"Reason number five-thousand six hundred and fifty-three not to get married."
You got that right, "Clint."