My Son Can’t Kick Your Son’s Arse, But My Dad Can

The Whine Machine was on.

Grandpa Von Longwinded was in town. He’s on my side. Grew up in Vergennes, VT. Retired. Enough said.

A family outing. My wife likes strolling. All women like to stroll, downtown, along the river. Strolling and outdoor cafes. We strolled down Illinois Avenue across The Fox and stopped in Il Giardino Del Dolce on First Street, one of our favorite spots. It is a lovely café/bakery where you slug olive oil and crème puffs. Il Gardino opened its first restaurant in Elmwood Park, where they caught mobster Joey Lombardo. So you know the food is good. Enough said.

My mother is 100 percent Italian so I can pretend I am full-blooded Italian, can proudly wear my Italian National Soccer Team jersey (Azzurri!! Azzurri!!) and say “molto bene,” hands gesticulating and look beyond moronic and embarrassing to my wife.

The 4 year old was whining. “I don’t want to go … I don’t want food … I don’t want be with Grandpa … I don’t like humanity … I don’t want dessert …”  Dessert? The kid just got his 30-day coin in (SAA) Sugar Addicts Anonymous.

Whine. Whine. Whine. Whine. Whine.

PROSPECTIVE ALERT: If you are not a Dad, don’t be. Hold out. Leave your girlfriend, fiancé, wife or potential baby mama. The whining will make you suicidal.

The echoing of the whine in the deli joint made me politely call my son to follow me outside. I am not the jagbag Dad who muscles their kid in public. I like to remove my child from the place of the Episodic Tantrum and instill a subtle, iniquitous fear into his bones through words, words that will seep inside his soul so he knows how to grow up and apply a cunning style through life. Donald Trump cunned. Richard III cunned. Cun son, cun.

What is the source of The Whine, kid? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Billy pushed you today and made you cry? His parents actually went all original and named their son William, Billy when he is still considered not ugly? And did he get sent to time out? Was it a push from behind? Did you not think to apply the judo throw followed by a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu armbar (thanks Anderson Silva) at which point you could have snapped Little Billy's elbow quick enough that Mrs. Cheery Cheer would have missed the act of revenge?

Okay son. Great. I would be whining, too. You missed a shot at glory and came out a bit soft. You confessed. You communicated your feelings to Daddy. Good boy.

Get me Billy’s address.

Let’s go stuff our flogholes with delicious pastries.

We can train on the mat in the basement later once the food has been digested. Enough said.