Ever since I was little, I wanted a vanagon. I worked for fifty years to get one — mailroom all the way up to manager — and now my shitty kid won’t stop fucking his girlfriend in it. I’m pretty sure he knows I know. My pride and joy, defiled every night by my teenage son and his girlfriend, who he met because they both play oboe in the high school band. I tried sleeping in it to deter him, but he just used the front seat. Not a fun wakeup.
I guess that’s the thing with dreams, you know? The more you build it up in your head, the worse it is when your seventeen year old son fingerblasts his girlfriend in it
