Brat: I’ll answer the questions. You want answers?
Daddy: I think I’m entitled to them.
Brat: You want answers?!
Daddy: I want the brat.
Brat: You can’t handle the brat! Daddy, we live in a world that has balls, and those balls have to be guarded by stuffed animals with Nerf Guns. Who’s gonna do it? Barbie? Forrest Gump’s, Lieutenant Dan? A brat has a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for fallen toys and you curse the stuffy Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know – that the movie Toy Story is non-fiction. That when we aren’t looking toys come to life. Their existence, while terrifying, saves balls.
You don’t want the brat because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want the brat protecting your balls. You need the brat protecting your balls. We use words like “slut,” “whore,” “good girl.” We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punch line in dirty talk.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very erection that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.
I would rather you just said “thank you” and went on your way. “Otherwise, I suggest you go to the toy store and get me more stuffies. Either way, I don’t give a DAMN what you think you’re entitled to!
Daddy: Did you order the code brat!
Brat: I did the job–
Daddy: Did you order the code brat!?
Brat: YOU’RE DADDY DAMN RIGHT I DID!?
Daddy: [takes a deep breath] Are you finished?
Brat: Yes, Daddy
Daddy: Lay over Daddy’s knee and pull up your skirt.
Brat: Yes, Daddy. Sorry, Daddy.
Daddy: Not as sorry as you’re about to be.
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The Cerebral Sir 