How to sort out a mother f*cker!

How about " boyfriend trashed "

Guess what, your not even my Dad, Dad. sorry thats probably really bad, dunno i just wanted to comment lol!

Daniel Farmer ENC 1101 Dr. Jennifer Haber 8 September 2007 867 Words Bloody Christmas On the most beautiful and anticipated evening of the year, after a perfect date under the stars and snow, my mother calls and tells me she went to visit her friend. I don’t realize that she is trying to tell me her boyfriend is home. Yawning from my driveway to the door, thinking about my girl, it is hard to believe that I would take part in a fistfight to stick up for my mother. I take my boots off outside and leap into the house trying not to get my socks wet from the slush. I leap into a puddle of almost molten snow inside the doorway. Consequentially, I take my socks off and stuff them in my jacket pocket. Walking towards my room I smell a blended aroma of dope, sweat, and air freshener. I pass by my brother’s room without looking because I think he might be in there with a girl. As I walk into mine, I find my stepdad passed out on my couch. That gets me a little stirred up but I let it go; I want to get to bed using as little energy as possible because I’m tired from my night out. Trying to get my intoxicated stepdad out of my room is usually as hard as getting a toothpaste cap out of a bathroom drain, but after giving him a dozen baby slaps on his cheek he gets up. “Where is your mother,” He asks. I don’t reply and wait for him to leave. On his way out he knocks over an ashtray. The ashes and butts turn my bright white carpet grey. He is too drunk to pick it up so I yell, “Just get out.” He slams the door and starts cursing in French. I finish cleaning my room and as I close my door the inebriated man mumbles, “Where’s your mother so I can fuck that whore.” I feel sorry for the bastard. I open my door to ask him to repeat what he said. Unsurprisingly he repeats it, but in a lower octave. He backs up into the living room, swings his arms out, and asks me to bring it on. He is barely standing up so I let him throw the first punch which I block and reply with a left hook to his chin. His head swings backwards and he falls on the couch. I tell him to get up and to fight like a man. At this point everything happening in front of me seems like I’m watching it from above in slow motion, a feeling I get when I fight. He attempts to get up, and as he does, I am ready for him with all 215 pounds of my body’s weight shifted to my fist. As he stands up, he turns his head towards my punch and there goes his nose. I hear his nose break; it sounds like a baseball bat hitting a cucumber. He stands there, just staring at me. I wait for the blood, it pours down like rain exiting a gutter. He drops to his side, and then rolls over on his back. I am considerate enough to roll him over on his stomach to prevent him from choking on his own blood. I walk away feeling so good. The feeling of adrenaline wearing down, the same adrenaline that was pumping through my arteries a moment ago, was now relieved, like it had its own orgasm. I take a breath, enjoy the feeling, and shut my eyes. “Knock Knock,” goes the door. There are five quick knocks so I know it’s a cop. It takes me a while to unlock the four locks that keep our family safe. As I open the door I am told to wait in the hallway with the female cop. I don’t know what story my stepdad told the cops but it gets me thrown out of my own house. The police around here are inconsiderate; they don’t see anything wrong with leaving a barefoot sixteen year old out on the streets. All I am wearing is a bloody white shirt and boxer briefs. I walk to my buddy’s house. He answers the door and looks at me surprised. He then hands me a towel. I sit down on the couch and tell him what just went down. I like to think that I fought him only because of all the rude things he said, but it also has a lot to do with the fact that he was too young for my mother, twenty-one to be exact. It took another five months for my mom to dump him, and additional year to get him to move out. I am proud of what I did. My mother wasn’t thrilled that her boyfriend looked like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I was hoping she’d be proud and feel protected knowing she had someone watching her back, but she wasn’t. She can put the blame on me that I ruined their relationship, but, I was only defending her, and I will do whatever I can to protect the ones I love.

"For Her Honor"

My title would have been "He talked trash, I took out the trash", but I read your article. It seems the trash got to stay. Having lived thru something similar, and while I NEVER condone violence, I am actually glad you stood up for her. My brother and I did so a few times growing up in a similar situation. Unfortunately, sometimes the sons HAVE to look out for the Moms.

"Too soon the man" Hang in there kid, I mean that sincerely....

That's not a story so that's your first problem right there.

"No one talks to Mom like that"

Opening up a can of Whoop Ass

I learned this from a friend of mine because it feels so much more satisfying when done. Anywho, just before you beat him down, grab him by the neck and hell out, THIS IS SPARTA!!! And let the beatdown begin.

To mother with love

Mommy's Dearest.

How about the boyfriend talked trash so I kicked his mother f***ing ass

"Who's talking now?"

Justice ?? :)

stories from the trailer park