Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

He must be picking the kids up on the way home from Fucksville.

I get a vision of him walking in the door and me punching him fair and square in the nose, knocking him out. I’m sure if I looked in a mirror right now the whites of my eyes would be red. I’m like the exorcist before a kill.

I put my head into my hands.

Calm, calm… just keep calm.

He’s an idiot and you’re too good for him. He had sex with strawberry fucking shortcake last night.

I hear the car drive up the driveway, and I run to the window. Oh no.

They’re here.

I run to the laundry and start pulling the jerseys out of the dryer at double speed when something falls on the floor. Huh? I glance down and see a white thing. What’s that? I pick it up and see that it’s a very hot number seven.

My eyes widen.

I pull a jersey out of the dryer to see the number on the back of it is melting and hanging off.

Oh no.

What the hell?

I scramble through the jerseys. Sure enough, all of the numbers on the back are either completely fallen off or are half hanging off.

“Brelly!” Sammy calls from the kitchen.

I put my hands over my mouth. What the ever-loving fuck??

This can’t be happening. No… Dear God, no.

“Go and wake her up,” I hear Julian say to Willow.

"I'm awake," I growl. "And in the middle of a nightmare."

Willow comes

into the laundry and her eyes widen when she sees the jersey I’m holding up. “Oh my God,” she cries. “What have you done?”

I wince and put my hands on the top of my head. “I don’t know!” I yell.

Julian walks into the laundry and his face falls as he sees the melted number two. “What the hell’s going on here? You can’t put those in the dryer. Don’t tell me you put those in the dryer!” he snaps.

“Of course I did!” I yell.

Willow starts crying and takes off upstairs, having a complete meltdown.

I know how she feels because I want to have one myself. This is unfucking believable.

Mr. Masters picks up the jerseys and starts to go through them.

“They’re all ruined,” he growls.

“What kind of crap jerseys can’t go in the damn dryer?” I cry.

“Every jersey in the damn world.”

Sammy snaps and punches his father on the leg as hard as he can. “Don’t yell at her,” he cries. “Stop it.” Then he bursts into tears.