Illustration by Bob AulTo the self-described ex-USC frat boy: I had my suspicions about you when you swaggered up to our table, looking a little coked-up, and forced your pudgy ass down at our booth. My girlfriends and I exchanged looks of disdain. In a slurred voice, you proceeded to indulge us with your life as a “businessman” pulling in six figures. Fine, you're a rich asshole with little class. But you didn't stop there! After asking my best friend if she is married (she is), you confided that you are as well. What a coincidence. You also admitted to having a 16-month-old child—what you also had was your arm around my uncomfortable friend, and what you didn't have on was your wedding ring. When you asked what my friend's husband did, you acted shocked and said, “A girl like you CAN'T be happy with someone who does manual labor—that ain't cool!” Right, asswipe: she'd rather have an ex-fratboy, overweight loser who hits local dive bars in search of some weekend tail. You get my vote for worst father AND husband of the year. And by the way, if you're making six figures, may I suggest you invest in a new turtleneck? The one you had on was pretty haggard.
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