Alright, now since Father's Day is right around the corner, I figured I'd tell a story, that happened on Father's Day a few years ago.
And this is a story that I really don't want to tell, because ...
Well, it's pretty damn embarrassing.
But that's never stopped me before, so here we go.
So a few years ago, my parents decided to have a barbecue in their backyard for Father's Day.
And, of course, being the good son that I am, I show up and I give my dad a present.
And that year it just so happened to be front-row tickets to see the Tigers lose to the Yankees.
And overall this cookout was going pretty well.
I'm over there mingling with a couple of my parents' friends.
"So what is it that you do for a living?"
"I ... uhm ... make shitty cartoons about my life and then put them on YouTube."
"Oh I see, so you're unemployed, that's pretty neat."
But things start taking the turn for the worse when my Dad starts making cocktails for the party.
Some rum and cokes, if you will.
And how my dad makes a rum and Coke is he pours a half a liter of rum into the biggest cup he can find, and then he waves an unopened bottle of Coca-Cola over it like a magic wand.
At least that's what it seemed like, because these goddamn drinks were strong as hell.
And he was using some cheap-ass rum on top of it.
He wasn't using Captain Morgan.
Hell, he wasn't using Admiral Nelson either.
I don't know what rank the goddamn pirate was on the bottle, but I can tell you it wasn't very high.
It was probably something like, "Just got on the boat Jerry."
"Rum that will be sure to put your dick in the dirt!"
So I'm indulging myself, but every time I finish a drink, my dad makes me another one.
And every new drink that he gives me is bigger than the last one.
"Hey, you want your next drink in a salad bowl or this five-gallon bucket?"
"Hell, I could inflate a baby pool and just dump it in there, if you want."
So two hours later, all of a sudden, I'm drunker than ten stepdads put together.
Now, just how drunk was I? Well, I can tell you that at some point in the middle of the cookout I got a random nosebleed and my drunk ass didn't realize it, until somebody was like: "Hey, you idiot! Your fucking face is bleeding!"
Now, this part of the story gets a little hazy, since "Just got on the boat Jerry" has been kicking my dick in all afternoon.
But according to my parents' testimonial the next day, apparently, I walked into the bathroom, bled all over the place, like a wounded animal, somehow broke their goddamn sink off the wall, and then strolled out like nothing ever happened, while their bathroom looked like a goddamn homicide scene.
I walk into the backyard with a wad of toilet paper crammed up my nose, covered in blood.
Everybody's looking at me, like I just left the scene of a fucking car accident.
I go to sit down on a chair that apparently didn't exist.
And I bust my ass in front of the whole backyard.
"Well, I bet he doesn't make a shitty YouTube cartoon about this."
"I bet you I will, God damn it!"
"Holy hell, did somebody slip him a roofie or what?!"
"We need to get his goofy ass out of here!"
So my dad has to drive me home that day and drop me off, like it's my first day at school and shit.
"So ... thanks for making an ass of yourself in front of all my friends."
"Oh, and thanks for the Tiger tickets too!"
So now it's four in the afternoon.
I'm passed out in my bed, all stepdad-drunk.
And of a sudden I wake up and I realize that I have to take a piss.
But I'm pretty sure, if I stand up, I'll either throw up or I'll shit my pants.
Probably both, if we're honest with each other.
So in a last ditch effort I roll to my side, unzip my pants, and I piss onto my bed.
I'm not sure what my logic was, but somehow that was a better option, than pissing in my pants.
As if I could explain to myself later, like, "Oh no, you didn't piss the bed, you pissed onto your bed!"
"And that's better, somehow, I think."
So I fall back asleep on my now piss-stained mattress, and I don't wake up again until 9 o'clock at night.
And let me tell you, I felt like death.
I felt like somebody murdered me, and then brought me back to life, and then took a piss on me to top it all off.
And at first it didn't even register what I had just done.
Hell, it all felt like a dream to me.
"Surely I didn't whip my dick out and piss onto my own bed!"
"Why would I do such a thing?"
But if that was all just a dream, I had quite a few things to explain.
Like, why all my bed sheets were all wet?
Or why my whole bedroom smelled like a goddamn port-o-potty.
Or, you know, why dick was still out, because I never bothered to zip back up.
"Oh, God damn it, I did piss onto my own bed!"
"What am I, some kind of wild animal?"
So needless to say, I took a shower that night.
And I also took a long hard look at my life.
"Nobody will ever know that this happened."
"I will never ever, I will never ever tell this story, I will never ever tell this story to anybody!"
So happy Father's Day out there to all the dads and stepdads, and remember, the moral of the story is: "Don't slam down a bunch of bottom-shelf booze on Father's Day, because you'll probably piss on your own bed like a wild animal!"
[Special Thanks To: Dana Shaw, Andy Hyun.]
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