I’m sorry for the clickbait, Jerry, but this is an intervention.
Your passion for beatboxing is tearing this family apart. I hear your “oooooooooo”s at night—in our bed, in the home that we share. I can smell the jazz on you when you stagger through our door in the wee hours of morning, legs shaking from step-touching.
Your son doesn’t know you, Jerry. Little Scoo-Bop just wants to spend time with his dad, but you’re out, God-knows-where, wearing all black with a pop of color. When we took our vows before the Lord, we promised to be there for each other in sickness and in health. But your “pitch” group name puns make me sick to my fucking stomach. Something needs to change, or else I’m getting Scoo-bop piano lessons. He will never end up like his trebeled dad. I’m sorry, Jerry.
