Single Dad


I'm always on top.
My penthouse.
My corporate office above Manhattan.
And, of course, the women in my life.

Actually, I might choose any position.

But make no mistake. I choose. I control.
My life is mine.

Which is why I'm not sure what the hell is going on when I open my front door and there's a baby stroller sitting in my private hall.

The note on the infant simply says, "Do the DNA. She's yours."

Well, damn.

Pick it up on Amazon.


My bride-to-be Arianna wants to meet my parents.

They live in a trailer. Dad thinks Playboy T-shirts are classy because the naked women are silhouettes. Mom has a tattoo of a dog humping a palm tree. I don't think either one has said a sentence without an f-bomb since 1985.

I changed my name a long time ago. Started a new life with a clean slate and never looked back.

I don't know how to mend that bridge.

Or why there's a pig-on-a-spit at their surprise engagement party.

Or how Arianna and I ended up wearing matching "Ball and Chain" bride and groom shirts.

But you don't get to choose your parents.

And in my family, crazy is definitely relative. 

Pick it up on Amazon.