Brother, I’m three wives deep now, and the oldest daughter, from the first—who was raised to believe I was a total bad guy, but who found out that I looked her up, so I could pay her child support after her mother skipped town with her—she wants to know what I looked like when I was Nineteen—in full Columbine Joe mode. Funny thing is, the only picture I could find was this prom picture with Taffy, who had actually asked Tiffany permission to have me escort her to the prom. And it was what it was supposed to be—a platonic date. However, they both knew I had been with the other—and as it turned out, I would be again.

Now Taffy had the kind of body—as you can see—that you want to have fun with. Her mother must have had a visitation from the Angel of the Lord telling her that her unborn child was destined to be a stripper, because she was. Why else would a woman saddle her girl with the ultimate white trash name? I was all over that, so much so that I would have thought she was pregnant with my child, had the kid not come out looking like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Didn’t need a DNA test for that—that boy had far too good a tan to be an Irishman.

Once, they both ended up at my place at the same time. I’m trying to maintain control by using separate kitchen chairs for each of us so that one doesn’t start getting cuddly with me in front of the other. My roommate shows up and he’s like, “Dude, why are both of your girls here at the same time?” and I’m like, “Could you keep it down, please. This is a miscalculation, a momentary lapse of knowing where the fuck my dick is supposed to be tonight, okay!”

Eventually Taffy leaves, claiming that I was ignoring her, which I of course copped to later on. She was also terrified of Tiffany. Tiffany is your Rhonda Rousey-type, corn-fed, Herford girl. I used to grapple with her all the time. And she’d love it, punch and kick me, head butt my chest. She wouldn’t quit until I choked her out. My friends even broke it up once thinking that I was seriously abusing her and I’m like, “No man, she loves this shit.”

Now, she couldn’t take a guy, but any normal chick, oh it would be like a pit bull on a poodle.

As it turns out I did not marry Taffy, which was a good thing. She turned out to be a terrible mother. She used to lock her kid in his room while she went to work. I’m not the guy that would be okay with my son getting locked in a fucking closet while my Ex was working the stripper pole. No wonder these people are so messed up today. Tiffany is a done deal too, but that was half my fault. I got a chance to hook back up with her lately—she really has her act together, halfway through medical school—but God himself cock-blocked me. She was number 2, all time, right behind the insane black chick whose middle name was drama—you don’t answer the phone by the third ring and she’s throwing shit at you when you get home. There is just something about extremely sexy women that—well, they’re insane, that’s it, isn’t it?

Do you know of anyone that is hiring fulltime?

As a principled libertarian—unlike the gun-grabber my party nominated—I can’t do Obama care and am doing without insurance. I eat well—am a personal trainer, doing the paleo-diet. But no one will hire you fulltime anymore because they don’t want to have to provide health care. Obama is such a dick. He’s made us into a nation of part-time employees. I’ve got eighty bucks after child support. If it wasn’t for working at the liquor store and the personal training gig, I’d be living in the woods.

I am interested in dating again since the wife put me out and filed—and I was totally on the straight and narrow, doing my ministry on facebook, witnessing. But here I am, cast out and taxed for my rejection. As a Libertarian, I advocate dealing with women the same way I deal with cops, which I learned back when I was getting high all the time.

If a cop asks me what I’m doing, I say, “My business.”

If he asks where am I going? I say, “To my business. Am I being detained, officer? Then have a nice day.”

Once I had a few friends over to drink and smoke some weed, back around Two-Thousand. A knock comes on the door, and since they all knock the same, you know it’s the police. I go up to the door and say, “May I help you”—speaking through the door. Mind you, I’m toking on a big old blunt. And my friends are flipping the fuck out.”

The cop then says, “We have a noise complaint.”

I stepped away, turned the music down, and said, “Is that an acceptable volume, officer?”

He said it was and then asked if he could enter, to which I said, “No sir, the noise complaint has been addressed. I won’t turn it back up. Now have a nice day.”

I went back to the couch and my friends are like, “You can do that?”

I said, “Absolutely, brother. They have a rule book and it behooves us to read it.”