When mom brought the new Old Spice guy around, I wasn't buying it. Sure, he called me “Chief” and mussed with my hair and said things like, “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle before? Would you like to?” and then mom would put up some kind of weak protest and he’d laugh and say “Oh come on, it’s safe enough. Let the boy have some fun.” But I wasn’t buying it. All through dinner at the mid-priced restaurant where new Old Spice guy said we were even allowed to order appetizers, which mom NEVER let us order appetizers, it was still just like “what are you trying to do here, new Old Spice guy? What’s the end game?” I was suspicious. And I was right to be suspicious.
Because new Old Spice guy didn’t go away like the others. He stuck around. He sat on our furniture. Mom brought him snacks while he hogged the TV. She said it was important for children to have an Old Spice guy in the house. Says you, mom. I hope you know I could hear the two of you at night, “deodorizing.” I'm already pretty much sick of him, OK?! He just better not ever try and boss me around or else you’ll see.
You can’t tell me what to do, new Old Spice guy. You’re not my dad. Isaah Mustafa is my dad!
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