I have believed for some time I am raising a combo of Ferris Bueller and Eddie Haskell. Today I realized, I’m raising Joel Goodsen. You remember Joel, from the movie Risky Business. He’s the suburban Chicago teen who takes a ride in his dad’s car while his parents are out-of-town and suddenly needs lots of money quickly. So he does what any kid would do: he runs a prostitution ring out of his parents home for the weekend.
The twist in Monkey Boy’s version of the story is, according to the tales he’s telling his classmates, he’ll have learned his trade from his mother: the madame. He’s previously outed me for having dirty toys in my closet and a drug habit. Today, he announced “I got a hooker in my pants.” I’m not sure there’s any way at this point I can deny I’m running a brothel.
For whatever reason, Monkey Boy calls anything with a hook, a hooker. Tow trucks are usually the defamed parties. The shorts he’s wearing today have a hook rather than a snap. (I don’t know why. Ask the clothing manufacturer.) When I was helping him get dressed I wanted to make sure he could work it, so there were no potty incidents. He declared with a great deal of satisfaction he “could work the hooker in my pants.” I over-pronounced “hook” for the rest of the morning, hoping it would stick. But I’m not that kind of lucky. Upon arrival, he proudly told his classmates of his deft skills with the hooker in his pants.
So fine, I confess. I’m raising my son in the Best Little Whore House in Little Rock. Except well, we don’t sing. But there’s nothing dirty going on.