Last night, upon seeing Luka Doncic’s mother radiating in that purple dress at the NBA Awards, the three year relationship I’ve cultivated with my girlfriend seemed trivial. The laughs, the cries, her rolling down the window of an Uber while I vomit outside after a long night, all that fell away when Ms. Doncic flashed on the screen for a fleeting moment.
I packed up my belongings, kissed my lady on the forehead, handed our dog the last treat I’d ever give him, and as she wailed “Where are you going?!” I took a long drag of a Parliament, turned to her and said, “I have to go see about a girl” (a Good Will Hunting reference that I’ve always been dying to use).
Now, in my quest to become Luka Doncic’s father, I am tasked with learned the Slovenian language, shedding my man tits, and finding stable work in a country whose main industries are lead and zinc smelting.
I don’t think there’s a man, woman, or child reading this right now that wouldn’t agree that it’s all worth it.
I understand that becoming Mr. Doncic is an uphill battle, especially seeing as there isn’t a straight man on the planet whose pants didn’t get tighter when she graced the screen.
Move out the way, fellas. I got first dibs.
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