Little Cesare


Since eliminating the possibility of offspring I’ve been having nightmares about raising two troublesome tykes–one of each gender. My son, Cesare, is ten-years-old and he’s a tyrant.

“I’m tired of leaving work to pick you up from the principal’s office. Next time your skinny ass is walking home.”

“Da-ad. You told me to stand up for myself.”

“You kicked a little girl in the vagina. What the hell is the matter with you, son?”

“Well, as it turns out, girls don’t have balls, so what was I supposed to do?”

“How about not kick her in the crotch, for one?”

“It’s your fault, anyway.”

“Really? How so?”

“She was making fun of my name, which you gave me. Thank you very little.”

“It’s tradition. The first son gets named after the grandfather.”

“My friends walk around with hip names like Connor and Tyler. I would have welcomed Joe or Bill for fuck’s sake.”

“Language! Your name is unique. You should embrace that. No little girl’s teasing should make you have a violent reaction.”

“She called me queasy Cesare, the pants pee-er.”

“That’s pretty clever, actually.”

“How’d you like a kick in the cunt, too?”

“I don’t have … ugh … hey! Watch your mouth!”

“You swear all the time.”

“That’s no excuse. I’m an adult.”

“Whatever. Say, why don’t we stop by the pub and grab a brew? You seem uptight. Maybe it would mellow your ass out.”

“I am mellow, damn it!”

“Right. Come on, Pop, let’s have a beer or six.”

“You’re not drinking beer. You’re ten.”

“Fine. I’ll have a cranberry rocks and be that cute kid all the chicks dig.”

“I’ll never understand why that works.”

“Just leave it to me. I got you, bro.”


“Just keep the monkey-love noises down after you bring the bar slut home. House is on tonight, and I don’t want any distractions.”

“Well, what if the bar slut conveniently has a mini-slut with her?”

“Interesting prospect.”

“It happens. Maybe the mini-slut would want to get all freaky-deaky with Little Cesare.”

“No doubt. She’d need to wait until House was over. Do we have any wine?”

“Yes and no, you won’t be drinking wine.”


“No weed either.”

“You suck. It’s not fair. You get to use contraband to gain access and I’m left with my boyish charm and Pop Rocks.”

“What the hell does Pop Rocks candy have to do with it?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? They’re only the best thing since Altoids.”

“Best for what? Breath-freshening?”

“God, you are oblivious. Pussy eating, dumb-dumb.”


“Think about it–all of that fizziness causes vibrations and sensations. Next thing you know, lying next to you is a quivering lump of post-orgasmic sweetness.”

“Huh. Go figure.”

“See? We should hang out more. You could learn a thing or two.”

“You’re fucking TEN, slapnuts!”

“I’m an old ten. Now, how about that drink?”

“Fine, but you’re buying.”

“Fine. Hey, think you could advance me a fiver on the allowance, Pop?”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.