‘Brandon! Brandon! Brandon, come here!
Thats what I heard for five minutes while we were in the Quicky Mart. Your 3 year old was running all over and knocking stuff down while you and your Whiskey Tango (white trash) wife were getting your post methadone clinic Big Gulps. You would just just yell every 30 seconds “Brandon come here” like an hillbilly fog horn. I wanted to yell “turn your fat jowls and watch your crotch fruit, yelling Brandon every thirty seconds does not make up for your lack of parenting “. I chose not to as I just wanted out of there.’