An Open Letter to the Attendees of My Daughter’s Birthday Party, Written After Drinking Eight Beers

Dear party guests,

I apologize in advance for sending out a thank-you letter en masse (trust me, Barbara, it’s a term), but I’ve been forced to break with tradition. It seems that SOMEONE (my wife, Carol, ladies and gentlemen!) didn’t keep a list of who gave what to Darcy, but I’m choosing to rise above the situation because I have a modicum of etiquette. We live in a society with rules, Carol.

I don’t know who gave my daughter a puzzle but it’s not the 1820s anymore. Also, the only people who enjoy putting them together are widows hording a clowder (YES IT’S A WORD, BARBARA) of cats in a utility apartment above a bowling alley. Speaking of which, do you know who’s going to have to put this damn thing together? Me. The guy with horrible spatial skills and a deep sense of denial over the need for bifocals.

To whoever gave Darcy the board game Candyland, I’d like to thank you for providing me with an opportunity to spend fifteen million tedious hours with my daughter. Next time just give me a revolver with one round in the chamber. At least Russian roulette eventually ends.

Jacob, I know it was you who gave Darcy a Frozen karaoke machine. Listen, I think you’re a great kid and I know that this isn’t your fault. Your daddy and I have some issues and by “issues” I mean I caught him “with an intern” at the office Christmas party a few years ago and I might have mentioned it to your mom. Give me a call if you’re looking for a better role model.

TAP SHOES?! If I wasn’t convinced that Jacob’s dad sent the karaoke machine, this would be right up his alley. It’s Barbara, isn’t it? I’ll bet it’s Barbara. Look, your daughter seems like a nice kid, but you’re a real piece of work. You never got over the fact that I married Laura did you? Well, enjoy that dud of an engineer who makes “a real living” and is most likely “probably at least breathing” in the sack.

NO ONE IS INTO ANNA, Abigail! NO. ONE. Maybe if your parents weren’t so busy being “separated” and humping everything within a fifty mile radius they’d pull their heads out of their respective asses and realize that it’s all about Elsa. Tell them to spend less money on condoms and more on birthday presents next time.

Lizzy, unrelated to gifts, you can tell your cokehead dad that if he wants a piece of me, I’m ready anytime, anywhere and by the way who gave my daughter the book A Separate Peace? Aside from the fact that it’s a really shitty book, my daughter can’t even read Pinkalicious Goes to the Carwash, so thanks a shitload for making her feel inadequate.

What’s that, you son of a bitch? I’m not reading to my daughter enough? Is that what you’re saying? I read to Darcy every night and instead of “working” at your shitty little startup and attending “business meetings” at The Jewel Box strip club, Steve, you might try spending some time with your own daughter. I’m twice the man you are, Steve, and I’ve CHOSEN to be a stay-at-home dad because I love my daughter. I WANT to see her as much as I can and BE THERE for her before she becomes a raging loon who gives hand jobs to homeless men for five bucks like your oldest. HOW DOES THAT FEEL STEVE? TELL ME HOW DOES THAT FEEL?

God I HATE all of you. It blows my mind that you people have managed to procreate or even find someone willing to tolerate your presence for more than FIVE MINUTES. (Except you, man. You know who you are. Seriously man, I think you’re great and I love you. Let’s try and do lunch next week.)

Sincerely,
Richard Black

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