Trevor and I have been able to have the occasional dinner together at Burger King, which has his favorite kind of ice cream and apple juice. My estranged wife has been kind enough to spirit him away from his routine so that we can have some time together. If children are a good reason to remain on good terms with the woman that fires you, grandchildren are too.

Women in families—and increasingly fathers—simply seem to be abiding by all of the soulless government guidelines for warehousing and brainwashing their children. It is the frictionless way to go, especially if your working 12-14 hour days, like my oldest son. It was the same when his brother went to school. Glen liked his hair long because I had long hair, but also liked to wear suits and cowboy boots. From age three he disapproved of my attire.

Kids at school would pick on him for the suit and he would fight back with the cowboy boots. I once picked him up from school—where his gay teacher used to suck on his smokes while watching my 50 pound son fight a 120 pound Dindu—and gave him a seminar on killing our enemies, right in front of three Dindus. This got me in trouble with his mother, my mother and her mother all in the same day. What really killed them was his insistence on wearing suits. The women wanted him to be just like all the other little meat puppets. I supported him in his battle of wills against the matriarchy—that terrible failing of female kind, who seem driven to erase the identity and the fight from boys who want to oppose this bizarre arrangement.

Trevor should be helping my mother with her house and learning to read and type from her.

By the time he's ten he should be working with me or his father.

He shouldn't be spending all of this time caged up with these herded children, learning to think like a girl.

Of course, I have no authority in this, in our atomized society dedicated to killing the remnants of the family. So I am waging a guerilla war of the mind, signing on as his advisor. He has been incredibly upset over being shuffled off to the matriarchy pens. So, as I sat across from him and I asked him how school was going and I saw that he was afraid to tell me how lousy it was, I lowered my voice, "Hey Buddy, you know how I dealt with school?"

He shook his head "no," a little picture of innocence and I told him, "I escaped! I got away! I eat what I want, do what I want. I'm the kid that got away and the other grownups don't mess with me!"

He looked up at his grandmother, who assured him, "It's true, Trev, Pap is known for breaking rules."

I offered no more, end he eyed me sharply over his ice cream, wondering, it seemed, if I were a double agent for the Grownups. A wink from me assured him that he had a contrary friend in old places.