“What does a pussy and a crossbow have in common? You never want to take either in the face.” Every morning, Daryl practiced dispensing fatherly advice, his neck craning upward so his Adam’s apple popped each word out like PEZ.
Four years ago, Daryl was all up in it before it turned into the wrong end of Shark Week; her inner thighs chewed his temples alive. After awaking from a two-day coma, the labia became razor wire at Auschwitz. Once Daryl adapted this concentration camp metaphor, his batting average was that of an amputee until he found Baptist women whose idea of third base was kissing while holding hands in a dark room; his wedding to Monica was in three days.
“I like my humor like I like my humping: dry.” Daryl shook his head. Less Dorothy Parker, he thought. If I can be a good father, my children won’t make the kind of mistakes that beg for the invention of time travel.