Worlds Greatest Dad

My son is the greatest. No doubt about it. I'm being bias of course, but after all he is my son. I only wish he could say the same for me. Not right now. I mean, he's only 11 months old. But as an adult. As an adult I only wish he could look back and say "My dad is the fucking greatest!"
We'll see.
Right now I feel far from it. Great that is.

Director Franz Frankenhiemer makes a left hand turn on to 110 Mulberry Blvd at preciously 11:01 AM.
He drives straight for 2 miles and at preciously 11:04 AM he enters the Porte-cochere to the Grand Larmont Hotel in Burbank, CA.
At 11:05 he opens the door to his BMW, tosses the keys to the Valet Attendant, and by 11:07 he is through the lobby doors, into the restaurant, and seated at table number 6. It's the one next to the bay window.
"Gentleman..." our director says "This better not be a waste of my fucking time."
The other two gentleman accompanying table number 6 are
David Danderage-Producer
Boris Markovich- Producer
"Go ahead! Tell him what you just told me..." Boris says "It's fucking Brilliant!"
A waitress comes by the table. She asks the three men what they would like to drink.
Franz tells her to Fuck off.
David Tells her they're busy
Boris orders an appetizer. It's the cave-aged gruyere and mostarda
David spills a small pile of white powder on the table.
"It's a new idea inside of an everyday concept." Says David
"You mean like Reality T.V.?" Franz Says
"It's American Idol!" Boris Says "But Better! Way fucking better!"
David Danderage chops the white powdery pile with a small razor blade.
"It's fucking Dancing with the Stars!" David says
" Meets Jerry Springer!" Says Boris "But better!"
David separates the powder into three separate lines.
Franz tells the two men to fucking get on with it.
Boris hands David a hundred dollar bill rolled into a small cylinder.
"It's called 'Worlds Greatest Dad!'" David says. He bends down and snorts one of the lines into his right nostril.
"It's like Survivor!" Boris Says "But Better! Off the fucking charts better!"
David hands the dollar bill back to Boris
"Each week we take three different dads..." David says " Each from a different social, economical, racial, and geographical climate..."
"It's like fucking American Gladiators..." Boris says "Meets Lost!" Boris bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left nostril. "But only 'Season One Lost'..." he says " but better! Out of this fucking world better!"
"These Three dads are put through a series of competitive tests..." David says "Both are physically, and mentally challenging." He says
"It's like Jeopardy..." Boris says "But so much better! So fucking better!"
Boris hands the Hundred Dollar bill to Franz.
"and at the end of the month..." David says "We take the winners from each week,and pit them against each other."
"It's like Big Brother!" Boris Says "Big Brother Meets Spartacus." Says "I would've said Gladiator but I fucking hate Russell Crowe."
Franz bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left Nostril.
The waitress comes by the table. She brings Boris his Appetizers. She asks the table if they need anything else.
"Fuck Off!" Franz Yells
"We're good for now." says David
Boris orders a diet coke. With a Lemon wedge.
Franz hands the Hundred Dollar bill back to David.
"So...Franz Baby, what do you think?" Asks David
"It's a sure thing!" says Boris "Like the actual quote." Says "Not the movie with fucking John Cusak."
Franz tells them he has to think about it. He looks at his watch and tells them he's late for another meeting. This one is with the creators of "Firehouse Rocks."
"The Reality show about Gay Firemen?" David Asks
"It was America's Got Talent." Boris says "meets the fucking bird cage." Says "But Better!"
Franz looks at his watch.
11:47 AM PST
He needs to drive 10 miles in 13 minutes.
So, at 11:48 AM, Director Franz Frankenhiemer stands from table number 6, shakes the hands of the two accompanying gentleman, leaves the restaurant, walks through the lobby and out the lobby doors and by 11:50 AM, he is seated behind the steering wheel to his BMW.
"It's like the real world." he thinks "Meets Days of fucking Thunder."

The clock on my computer screen tells me it's 10 after 12. I'd like to offer a creative Tie-in to the above story but can't.
I guess Christmas has put a lot of pressure on me.
There seems to be some sick part of society that tells us to buy the biggest and the best for our children, and if we can't, well, then we're just no fucking good.
So, right now. At 13 after Midnight, I feel as if I wouldn't even make it past the application process. You know. To the Reality T.V. show mentioned above.
It's like Maury Povich. Maury Povich meets Pulp fucking fiction. But not the send my wild teen to boot camp. I fucking hate when he does that.