Welcome To The Monkey House

Given my current situation of living in my father’s house with him, his pregnant twenty-something year old girlfriend, and their sixteen month love child I decided the only way to survive the ridiculousness of them is to document and quote them as much as I can. I should have thought of this idea a really long time ago. Most of the people who know me know how ridiculous these two people are, and not in a “fun loving” sort of way more so a “sad and depressing but let’s make light of the situation” kind of way. To accurately present this I feel as though I should paint a picture.

My father is a middle aged man far beyond the brinks of mid-life crisis. His life has been stuck in a perpetual crisis; he just has now reached the middle part of it. He is big fellow, probably more wide than he is tall due to the mass amounts of steroids he has taken over thirty years. He also loves to partake in recreational drug use. I once caught him snorting ecstasy off a cutting board in the kitchen. He owns several “legitimate” businesses along the east coast. If you Googled him you’d have a pretty good chuckle. He has six children with three different women. Like every good business man he sets up franchises.

His recent business endeavor is a half retarded college dropout from upstate New York. Like every middle aged man he needs to plant his dysfunctional seed in a young fertile woman incapable of taking care of children.

It is super bowl Sunday and my father wants me to attend his friend’s party to celebrate the occasion. He gracefully approaches me.
“You want to go to Jason’s party with us?” he asks, more of a demand than a question.
“No, not really,” I say.
“Why not man?” He gets closer to me. “Come on dude, it’ll be fun.” He playfully punches me in the chest, something he has perfected. “We’ll play beer pong!”
“Dad I don’t want to play beer pong at a house with a bunch of pregnant women and children.” I say in all honesty because 90 percent of the attendees are in fact pregnant or children, despite the fact that playing beer pong with my father doesn’t sound all that appealing anyway and honestly a little depressing. He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.
“Why?” he asks, followed by an uncomfortable pause where I start to walk away. “Is that not professional?”