Sometimes I’d like to heave my least favorite people onto a giant pile of burning tires.
But that’s not why I called you here.
I called you here to talk about your grades.
They’re bad.
Really bad.
So bad, in fact, that we’re going to have to send you to DisneyWorld.
You, Mickey, Minnie, and Goofy on the Tower of Terror.
Hold on to your mouse pants.
And if your grades don’t improve, we might have to buy you a car.
Ever heard of a PT Cruiser?
You’ll wish you hadn’t after everyone makes fun of it.
I guess what I’m getting at is your future.
We’re worried, Jarvus, that you’re not taking your future seriously.
The bad grades are just the tip of the iceberg.
What about the late nights when you don’t come home until 3 a.m., reaking of liquor and cigarettes?
Do you really think I can’t smell the weed you’re smoking in your bedroom closet?
In hindsight, having our home mortgage put in your name was a bad idea.
Not to mention the exotic pet permit we helped you apply for.
I just don’t think we can do it anymore, Jarvus.
Your mother and I are moving out.
You’re old enough to start living on your own.
In parts of Africa, boys are turned out of the home at the age of 10.
Turned out of the hut, rather.
What was my point?
Oh yes – your grades.
When I was in school, my parents couldn’t afford to drive me back and forth.
I was mailed in a large FedEx box.
Signature confirmation, of course.
Anyway, the point is that we think you’re mildly retarded, and we’re really afraid we’ll be stuck taking care of you for the rest of our lives.
We’ve got a good 30 years of life left, and we don’t want to be held down, just because we made a bad decision 15 years ago in the bathroom of a Taco Bell.
So good luck, Jarvus.
Tell Mickey hi for me.
© October 24, 2006
