Ahhh genetics. Aren’t they adorable? Sure! Of course they are when you are crossing the red flower with the white one in the Punnet Square…I think you get a couple pink ones when they, you know, do it.

I aced Biology as a lad. I’m not bragging. I’m just saying.

Anywho, so as an innocent young boy attending the daily garten that is kinder, my eyes fell upon a spirited lass with red hair braided in pigtails, and soon I found myself smitten. Yes, the Cootie fad common among my peers at that age (the lice-like infestation, not the upstanding Hasbro game that has been adored for generations) was completely foreign to me.

I’ve been down with hoes the ladies since day 1. That’s just how I roll.

So although on recess I would play “wrestle” and “fight” and dodgeball” and “kickball” and “guns” and every other game banned during the pussification of America, I’m not going to lie, I’d engage in a little bit of “chase” with the honies.

So, over dinner the other night, I asked Weirdo how school was and what she did (because I am an upstanding father and I think I once saw a PSA involving rapping parents that alluded to such interaction with your offspring keeping them away from “the weed”).

And as is generally the case, sans “I went outside” and “I played,” she has zero recollection of anything that took place within those hallowed halls of learning. But, alas, on this one evening, the details of her daily activities were more, shall we say, robust than most.

It seems Weirdo spent her recess chasing her friend “Betty’s” (name changed because getting sued over of shitty blog post sucks) brother. Now, she’s a girl and girls are prone to show an interest in boys at an earlier age, but did it have to start in kindergarten?

I’m a pretty easy going guy, and I know I can drink away the demons of fatherhood if need be, so I take it in stride as I saw through my pork chop, straight through the plate and into the table top.

But then the kicker came in:

Me: “Oh, and who is Betty’s brother?”

Weirdo: “Paul” (see above re: name change)

Me: “Paul, huh?”

Weirdo: “Yeah. He’s two years older.”

You wannabe pimp SOB, Paul.

I’m watching you.