There was always some rich dude, the type who’d alternate between his yacht and the golf course and who seemed evil but mostly was just rich and surely. He’d have a lovely young daughter who’d fall in love with this dopey guy; some regular schlub who meant well but had no real ambition in life, someone who knew he was more of a caretaker than creator. The old man would meet the schlub and be disappointed. He wasn’t mad, per se, but let down. Not by her but by life because he knew she’d fallen in love with someone totally unlike himself, though mostly because he knew his buddies would know that the kid was a loser. He’d get the doofus a job in the company he built, some high paying spot with a good title and little responsibility. There’d be grandkids because of course there would be and the old man would probably buy them a house on the same block because his wife and daughter were all about living near one another. Being that schlub was my fallback plan but I seem to have missed it and landed in my mother’s basement instead. I don’t think I’m going to be very sympathetic to people.
Call him: Donald Plump.