how a boy turns 5: rape and pillage
Owen turns 5 in a few days, so we invited his preschool classmates to our newly renovated backyard Saturday for his choice of themed birthdays: pirates!
In addition to a bunch of kids and parents I didn’t know, I got to see my friends Karen (whom I know from social media) and Jody (whom I met in 1983 in our elementary school cafeteria), plus their children, which made my role more enjoyable. There they are, underneath the tent and banners I painstakingly assembled and hung, to no fanfare or gratitude whatsoever.
My bride, who’s skilled with a carving knife, made this thing, much to the chagrin of my scrotum:
Once the crowd had calmed down a bit, found the hidden treasure from the map above, and had their cupcakes, I made them shuffle across a wooden plank and plummet into the emerald zoysia sod awaiting their soon-to-be-crumbled little frames with no remorse whatsoever.
I started with my son.
His older sister looked on with a satisfaction only knowing you no longer have to share booty can produce.
And all the while, I memorialized his last minutes of life on Instagram.
And thus, the inaugural episode of Pirates of the Northern Atlanta Suburbs came to a violent conclusion before I even got a chance to grow a black beard.