(Christian Trevor Lisa)
The maniacal Netflix masturbator sits on his third generation Ethan Allen sofa at three o'clock in the morning earning his title.
"Yeah" he grunts. You know exactly what I want. Start me off with three episodes of The West Wing and finish the job with the last ten minutes of The Breakfast Club."
Skatters every cell of his body into the wind—school, binge-drinking, Bass Guitar, Radiohead, Kid Cudi, Peter Frampton, Johnny Cash, Johnny Football,
getting that perfect powerclean Olympic Weightlifting ass,
Will Ferrel, Xbox, Eminem, Greek yogurt, Gorgonzola, Naked Juice
Networking, Scorsese, Shark Week, Ted Talks, John Mayer, he actually bought James fucking Franco’s collection of short stories and put it under his “books” section on Facebook. Family Guy, South Park, Seinfeld, Chris Farley and his wood louse of a side kick David Spade, David Sedaris, David Gilmour, David Foster Wallace, David Bowie, Larry David, Larry the lobster
Is there a person beneath this amorphous amalgamated monstrosity of stuff?
And he’s so caught up in Postmodernity and self-reflexive semiotics that he left his Jeep Laredo running outside of Planet Fitness
The parental pylon.
He declares that he is a father in the same way that chartreuse declares itself to be a color.
Dad is bad.
Dad has a girlfriend.
Hop on Pop.
He has a girlfriend and a library of cologne and secret apartment. It sounds much worse than it is, plus he can justify it.
You see, dad is sad.
Dad is housing this infinite sense of longing and regret
contingent on things and people he has never seen
He wants something indefinite and shapeless
something he does not have.
something he has never had.
This is a fleeting feeling that establishes itself in vague, concentric pulses that orbit around his solipsism.
Dad is alone.
Dad is sad.
Dad is bad.
Life is sad.
Life can be bad.
Heretofore Life is Dad. Et Cetera.
This prompts him to take action
He goes on LinkedIn while he’s drunk and attempts to maneuver an interview for a sales job at Godiva, despite the fact that he is lactose intolerant and has a master’s degree in Psychology.
He gets red-carded by his secretary for sexual harassment after watching too many episodes of The Office, and then tells his wife so that she will trust him.
He uses his connections and fourth generation smartphone to teach a class at a local college and type a syllabus, respectively.
Hi! My name is Roger Fairfax, but you can call me Roger. My office hours are MWF from 3 to 5 inside of my Kia Rio which is currently parked in lot purple 22 at Sea World.
Between class he exchanges self-serving pedagogical philosophies for cigarettes and oral sex, but only until he gets bored with the job and resigns after one semester.
In a few years, he will retire to the third generation Ethan Allen and spend his days idly retweeting articles from The New Yorker in an attempt to bridge the gap between cultural relevancy and pretentious worldliness.
And then the daughter.
The self-involved, static-haired, sandle-faced, asshat academic suckup
Everything she says coming out in that really irritating
exposition-of-a-high-school-play type of manner
She sets her entire resume as an email signature, like a passive-aggressive reminder that she is alive
Toes dipped in paint, face in wax, head inside of a trash can listening to NPR on the way to the animal shelter
She looks like a Barbie doll that slept in the dishwasher
But take her seriously because she’s the recording secretary of her high school chapter of National Honors Society
Can’t you tell by her Princeton Lacrosse sweatshirt that she is going places?
Mom’s New Year’s resolution is to shed all notions of self and image and any conglomeration of the two and become a skeleton,
So that finally, without eyeballs or organs or life, she can sleep and forget about that family portrait hanging in the attic, getting uglier by the day.