FATHER: Junior, I think it’s about time we had a little father-son talk.
SON: Okay Dad.
SON: No thank you.
FATHER: Son, what I wanted to talk to you about was…man, this is harder than I thought. Say, how old are you now, boy? Seven? Twelve? Nine? Fifteen? Feel free to jump in anytime here.
FATHER: Speak up, boy, I can’t hear you.
SON: Eleven, sir.
"Listen kid, sometimes your mom has other birds over to bake cakes too. That makes less sense now that I say it out loud…"FATHER: Eleven years old. How about that. Well, might as well get this out of the way while you’re young. Cigarette?
SON: I don’t smoke.
FATHER: Good for you. I started when I was about your age. You sure you don’t want some whiskey? I’m gonna have some.
SON: No thank you, sir.
FATHER: Son, what do you know about sex?
FATHER: You know, pussy. I mean—uh…bees.
SON: Um…I don’t know.
FATHER: Because I know you’re getting at that age where’re you’re starting to…I mean, you know…urges, and uh…
FATHER: Wacking off. Goddamn it, boy, quit trying to make me look like a jackass.
SON: Sorry sir.
FATHER: What about pubes, you got pubes yet?
FATHER: Oh for Christ’s sake, how stupid are you? Don’t you even know what—oh great, now you’re crying. Okay, look, I’m sorry I yelled at you and called you stupid. Let’s just get this over with.
SON: Yes sir.
FATHER: Have you ever…I mean…do you, uh…ah, hell, this is awkward. How can I put this…you know how sometimes your mother likes to be tied up and covered in cake batter?
FATHER: Oh. I guess that was your sister that walked in on us that one time. But hell, you must’ve wondered why your mom is always mixing cake batter and we never have any damn cake.
FATHER: Shit. Forget I said that. Like…for the next thirty years. And would you quit being such a faggot and have a drink with your old man? Jesus, kid, you’re making me uncomfortable. Oh god, why are you crying again?
SON: I’m sorry.
FATHER: Alright fine, you’re not a faggot. Just drink your—don’t spit it up, that’s Glenfiddich Single Malt!
SON: It burns!
FATHER: Okay fuck it, let’s wrap this shit up. Girls have these special flowers between their legs. They’re called vaginas. And they’re made of meat. Full of bees. With AIDS. So keep your dick in your pants. Now go do your homework so you can grow up to be a fucking astronaut or some shit.