Partly Cloudy, 64°
Let’s get one thing straight, Jerry. I know my mom loves you and I’m supposed to see you as my new dad. But you’ll never replace him. You can’t. You’ll never be half the man my father was, Jerry. That’s because my father had three bodies.
You think you can just waltz in here and win my love with an ice cream cone and a pat on the head? No. My father left big shoes to fill, Jerry. And more importantly, he left six big shoes to fill. Good luck fighting that battle with your measly two feet. Even if you were twice the man you currently are, that’s still two empty shoes left over.
It’s a simple matter of arithmetic, Jerry. Nothing to be ashamed about. My father was a special man, with a special number of bodies: three, to be exact. In order for you to be half the man my father was, you’d have to have at least one and a half. But, seeing as how you’ve only got the one, the best you can hope for is being one-third of the man my father was.
Compared to my father, you’re nothing. Or at least, you’re three times as close to being nothing as he is.
It’s like they say, Jerry: two heads are better than one. And, to logically extend that common adage, three heads are better than two. My father had three heads. And that just naturally means that he’s better than you. Don’t blame me, Jerry. I didn’t make up the adage. And I certainly didn’t choose how many bodies my father and you have in comparison to one another. It’s just the way things are.
Admittedly, my father’s three-body setup didn’t work out very well for him. It’s the reason he died so young—indeed, if my father had only had one body, he’d probably still be with us and you and my mother never would have met. But my father was a unique man who did things his own way, body number included. I’d like to see you try to have even half as much love for the world as my father did in his three, simultaneously beating hearts.
