It was 2007. He went Christmas shopping without me and came home high from his self-proclaimed success. I knew this would not bode well for me. He was prone to buy things that required allen wrenches and drills. Games with tiny pieces made from skin splitting plastic. Toys that the kids would "grow into" which means one of two things; either he had one as a kid or wanted one as a kid.
So it was no surprise when he showed me the WWF Wrestling Ring he bought for The Boy. It even came with a little plastic folding chair to ensure that his playtime included the simulated brain hemorrhaging of his opponent. It also came with enough rope for me to hang myself.
And then he showed me Boss Lady's gift:
Me: What the fuck is that?
Him: It's a Bratz doll. (His expression reads: Duhhhh)
Me: It's a whore's head. You bought our daughter a whore's head.
Him: I thought she'd like to do her hair.
Me: She has porn lips and it looks like she's been sucking dick all day.
(He looks at her lips as if he's trying to detect if I'm correct and if I am correct, maybe he'll just keep the whore's head for himself.)
Me: Are you going to buy The Boy a whore, too?
Him: Maybe. His sixteenth birthday sounds about right.
Me: Do me a favor and buy the whole whore next time. The last thing I need around here is a bunch of whore heads rolling around.
Him: Oh, I will. Gonna buy me one, too.
Me: Well, don't forget about me. Maybe we can get a family deal. Super-size our meal, so to speak.
Him: You're filthy.
Me: You're the one that bought a three year old a whore's head. And by the way, you do this all the time -- buying things that you really want and pretending it's for the kids. If you wanted a decapitated whore for Christmas, you could of just told me.
Him: I love you.
Me: You should.