“I DON’T HEAR YOU COUNTING, ASSHOLES!”
“Son of a bitch! How is this going to help us?” Carter whispers in between counting while he breathes heavily.
“It’s going to teach you pussies some respect,” my dad says suddenly, squatting down and putting his face right into Carter’s.
“Your dad scares the f**k out of me,” Carter mutters as quietly as possible as my dad gets up and walks back over to the fireplace.
We finish our push-ups and groan at the pain in our arms and backs as we get up from the floor.
We watch as my dad turns around and bends down to unzip a duffel bag that’s on the floor next to the fireplace.
He stands up and turns around to face us, holding three baby dolls in his arms.
“Time for baby duty, f**kers. Let’s see what you’re made of,” he tells us, handing us each one of the dolls.
Jim holds his by the hair, I hold mine by the foot, and Carter cradles his in his arms, swaying gently back and forth.
“Jim, Drew, right now your babies would be DEAD! You are holding a life in your arms and you just killed it. A man and his baby are a powerful force that can devastate small countries,” my dad lectures.
“Don’t you mean a man and his gun? A baby can’t really devastate a small country,” Jim tells him.
“Have you ever been in a room with a baby who is projectile vomiting, screaming his fool head off, and diarrhea is exploding out of his ass so much you think he has a fire hose shoved up there spraying shit instead of water? Babies are the Napalm of western civilization!”
My dad pulls a stop watch out of the pocket of his pants holds it in front of him with his thumb hovering over the start button.
“ON YOUR MARK!” he shouts.
“Wait! What the f**k are we doing?” I ask frantically, putting the baby up on my shoulder as I pat its back.
“You are changing diapers, limp dicks! GET SET!”
Carter gets into ready position, crouching low to the ground, his doll shoved into the back of his t-shirt with the head sticking out of the top and its eyes staring right at me.
“Son of a bitch! Where are the diapers?!” Jim shouts, tucking the doll under one arm like a football.
“This is your house, ass**le! Shouldn’t you know that?” I ask him, sticking the doll’s feet down the front of my pants so its limp body falls forward and it’s head is facing my crotch.
“Molly doesn’t wear diapers anymore! We don’t have any f**king diapers!” he shouts back at me.
“This is real life, soldiers! Sometimes you don’t know where diapers and wipes are and you have to make do, especially if you’re in the middle of the desert and your baby just shit its brains out!
“When the f**k would that ever happen?” I ask in confusion.
GO!” he shouts, clicking the stop watch.
Carter takes off like a bat out of hell and runs to the front door, throwing it open and racing outside. He has the right idea - he’s getting the f**k out of dodge.
Jim and I look at each other in confusion and both take off at the same time, slamming into one another, forcing Jim’s doll out of his arms. It lands on the floor on its head and we both pause and look over at my dad.
He just stands there shaking his head in disappointment.
Jim scoops up the doll and clutches it to his chest, giving me the finger before taking off up the stairs.
My dad turns the stop watch around so I can see, and I realize I’ve wasted a shit ton of time while Jim has probably already found a diaper and Carter is most likely already three miles down the road and has chucked his doll into a ditch somewhere.
I turn and run into the kitchen, the doll’s head bobbing up and down and smacking into my dick. If this wasn’t a serious situation, I would be laughing my ass off right now.
Oh f**k it.
I stop when I reach the kitchen and lift the doll’s head up by its hair. “Was that good for you, baby? You need to work on your technique. It’s never hot to just smack your face into a guy’s junk,” I say with a laugh.
I hear a throat clear and turn around to see my dad standing in the kitchen doorway with his hands on his hips, shaking his head at me.
Twenty minutes later, Jim and I are standing in the living room in front of the couch, holding our dolls. Mine has half of its hair singed off (don’t ask), a missing arm with a screwdriver shoved into its body for a fake arm (seriously, don’t ask), and a place mat tied around its ass for a diaper.
Jim’s doll doesn’t look any better. He’s holding the body in one hand and the head in the other, with one of its legs tucked under his arm. It used to have a pink pair of footy pajamas on, but now it’s just wearing a pair of Jim’s tighty whities, held in place with a couple of Liz’s giant hair clips.
My dad notes our times on a pad of paper sitting on the coffee table and hits the stop button.
“This is just a sad, sad display of skills gentlemen,” he complains.
“Wait, where’s Carter? You can’t stop the time yet, that ass**le hasn’t even made it back from wherever the hell he went,” Jim complains.
“Carter has been back here for ten minutes. He’s in the bathroom fixing his baby’s hair that got a little windblown outside.”
At that moment, we hear the toilet flush and the bathroom door open and Carter walks out into the living room holding his baby on his hip. Her hair is in two French braids, she’s wearing a different outfit than the one she came in, and has a diaper perfectly attached to her ass.