It doesn’t matter, He’s a good man. He tells the good jokes that loosens up everyone. He has a flawless grin, one that lures out a smile in anyone. He makes ribs that fall off the bone. He always remembers to bring the good alcohol, none of that that cheap shit in your cabinet. He makes sure you feel at home. He knows when to side with you. He watches over the hopeless drunk. Takes old ladies out to get their groceries. He’s Irish, Italian, German, Polish, Spanish or Jewish. Insert nationality here. Isn’t that enough to convince you? (they’re good people you know). He’s been through so much. Those bruises on his wife don’t mean a thing—she probably fell down or something. She’s being selfish, leaving him, and having the nerve to ask for a divorce. Those scathing words he screams are just a fabrication in the lie they weave. That girl that refuses to look at him, winces when he touches her, is just afraid of boys; she’s in that stage (She’ll probably turn into a lesbian. Don’t forget to brush your teeth and pray for her doomed soul).
It doesn’t matter. He’s a good man.
