Another Family Reunion

Warning: Some may find content offensive.

“There is no way you’re my son!” I shouted at the naked assailant standing in the doorway.

He saw the look in my eyes and grabbed his gonads protectively, “I am your eldest son.”

“Shut up. You’re beginning to annoy me again. None of my sons—I have three of them—look like you!” 

“Then what’s this?” He said pointing at a scar.

“Don’t know; a wound from an irate elderly person who you’d just fleeced for their life savings, perhaps?”

I picked up the bottle of whisky, ready to smash it and ram it into his groin.

“Dad, you really are the most stupid person I’ve ever met.”

I paused; that had sounded more like a son of mine. I looked at him; there was a vague similarity with my eldest boy.

I studied the man for a few moments and said, “my name’s eez. Stop calling me dad.”

The naked man looked me in the eye and said, “no it’s not. Your name’s dad as far as I’m concerned and if you ever crush my balls again I’ll pay you back for all the shit I’ve taken from you. Also, you’re a drunken bastard that has never helped himself, always helps out others, albeit with a bit of commission on top, and you live with a woman, my mother, who has put up with you for far longer than necessary and if you don’t shake my hand I’ll pour your breakfast down the sink.”

“You don’t look like my son,” I replied. “My son is fat, has no scruples whatsoever and makes me look like a saint!”

“Dad, nobody could make you look like a saint. You’re an arsehole.”

I had to confess, he had a point. “If you pour my breakfast down the sink, I’m going to stamp on your scrote again.”

“No you’re not. I’m bigger than you, fitter than you and I don’t have an ounce of fat on me; take a swing at me you old bastard and I’ll fucking annihilate you!”

I shook the hand of my eldest son.

The three of us finished breakfast about three hours later and stumbled to the pub.

Katie, having had too much breakfast, fell through the doors.

Her mother, Gertie, came from behind the bar and punched me.

My son shouted, “Keep your hands off my dad! And if any other fucker in this hole of a pub has a go at him I’ll rip their bloody throats out!”

I turned to the boy and said, “Er, son, you’ve just shouted at Gertie.”

He looked at me in horror. “Gertie? Gobbling Gertie? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Before I could answer, Gertie and her daughter, Katie, who my son had been banging for the last four days, jumped on my eldest boy and began to assault him in horrific fashion.

Behind the bar, I poured myself a large whisky and watched as a barstool, swung by Gertie, slammed into his abdomen. “Ladies, that’s my son you’re killing; I’d prefer it if hostilities ceased.”

“Your son? If that’s true, eez, it’s all the more reason to give him a damned good beating!”

I pondered for a moment.

I walked from behind the bar and stood between my son on the floor and the two women.

“Enough. It’s not his fault I’m his dad.”