And now, a poem that doesn’t rhyme: Brandon, you are the Riggs to my Murtaugh


Even when you’re screaming like a banshee, deep into the night, and probably waking up the neighbors,

You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh
Even when you bite the holy living shit out of my nipple while nursing,
Even when you blindly reach down to grab your poop-covered junk while I’m changing your diaper,
Even though I constantly have to bend at the waist while holding an unevenly distributed 20+ pounds (YOU),
You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh
Murtaugh was only days away from retirement, when along came Riggs, who rekindled that dying flame under Murtaugh’s ass.
Murtaugh was too old for this shit, you see. But Riggs did not care.
Murtaugh just wanted to chill with his morning coffee and stare into space, but Riggs always had other plans:
What kind of mischief can i get us into?
How many people will I kill today?
I wonder how reckless I can be with both of our lives this week?
These were just some of the questions Riggs would ask himself everyday.
And Murtaugh did what he could to keep his partner from getting himself killed, like all the damn time. And even though Riggs’s shenanigans took years off of Murtaugh’s life, he was always down for his homey. No matter what.
As I too, am down for you, Brandon. No matter what.
Because you,
Are the Riggs to my Murtaugh
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