A guy was rambling about how much of a softie (that was not the word he used. See? I can work clean, fuckers!) his grandkid is. He’s going on and on but all I can think of is,
“But you’re afraid of spiders.”
It’s true. One day a spider walked across a picnic table in front of me. He flipped out. And I, along with the spider, were at least four feet away.
Nonetheless, he’s disturbed by this pussification of his gene pool.
“It’s just a case of simple math.” I state for whatever dumb ass reason I’d state that. Because I have no friggin’ idea why I’d say that. I guess we’ll all find out together.
“You see, every guy has said he’d be happy if he was half the man his father was. That means you’re 50% of your old man, your son is 25% of the original so your grandkid is 12.5% man.” He stares at me, I hope, gaining clarity. “You’d better hope he doesn’t spawn because that kid would be scared shitless of air.”