Page 119 of Can't Text This

Me:Oh my gosh. Don’t say it like that!

Python:Fair’s fair, babe.

Me:I gotta ask, why does it look so weird?

Python:Good gravy, Monty. You CANNOT just ask a man why his wiener looks weird. Do you have no class?

Me:Just answer me.

Python:It’s a turkey dog. I try to eat healthy.

Me:That sounds…disgusting.

Python:No. Class.

Python:Listen, I gotta run—have to feed my kid. We have someplace we need to be soon. We’ll continue this sexument later.

Me:This what?

Python:S-E-X-U-M-E-N-T: a fun, flirty argument that’s bound to lead to sex.

Me:You just made that up, didn’t you?

Python:I can neither confirm nor deny that.

Twenty

Robbie

“But I don’t wantto go. First you made me go to day camp here and then regular school and now I have to go at night.Again.” He crosses his arms over his chest in a huff. “No thanks.”

“And I don’t want to work and pay bills and do all the other stuff I have to do but it’s part of growing up, so pull those pants up and let’s get moving. We’re going to be late.”

“That’s your fault. You were on your phone at the dinner table.”

“And you were eating slower than a snail.”

“You cooked dinner late.”

“It was a hotdog! Those should take like two minutes tops to eat. I didn’t know I had to give you a thirty-minute window of time.”

He shakes his head, his curls bouncing all over. “You don’t even know your own son.”

“I know I’m gonna stuff him in the nearest trash can if he doesn’t walk faster.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I side-eye him. “Test me.”

His eyes spark with worry and he takes off running down the hall.

“Walk!”

He skids to a half stop, his shoes squeaking across the floor.

“Thank you,” I call out as he disappears around the corner.

Little shit.

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