Billy Ivan's Open Letters to Trojan, Part 5

09-27-06
Dear Trojan…
She’s being very, very nice. I do not know what to say. I’m scared. I’m puzzled. I’m… still pissed off at you, but at least she’s acting human.

More later…

*****

10-03-06
Dear Trojan… I’ve been in Chicago for 3 days… with her. You were off the hook in the Windy City. She was wonderful. We ate, (I) drank, ate, (I) drank, saw cool things, went to a Cubs game, ate… (I) even got to scotch whiskey with a 70-year old Presbyterian minister (from Scotland) in a kilt at the top of the University Club for three hours on Saturday night…

He wore the kilt. Not me.

Point is, we had one of the best weekends my memory will allow me to locate.

But now we’re home, and she hates me. And I still hate you. And I want to move to Chicago.

*****
10-06-06
Dear Trojan…
So, where should I send the remaining condoms from the ill-fated pack that I purchased to help make sure my wife wouldn’t turn into a bloated Mommy Deaest?

Seriously.

I’d just throw them away, but I’m afraid an unsuspecting homeless person might find them and further ruin his life by trusting you sonsabitches with what’s left of his manhood.

A prompt reply would be appreciated. I want these things out of my house.

*****
10-16-06
Dear Trojan…
She tosses and turns and tosses and turns and bounces and wiggles and exhales (loudly) and squeaks and screams in her pillow and bangs the bed with her fists and throws the covers and cries and then laughs maniacally and then falls asleep for a few minutes and then comes back for more. Sounds pretty awesome, doesn’t it?

Nope.

She can’t effing sleep! And guess what that means, Trojan?

That’s right… Daddy can’t sleep either. Unless, of course, he’s at a stoplight on the way in to work this morning.

The police officer understood my predicament and did not issue me a ticket… But I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

So tired…