Dear Old Owl, It has been 11 damn years and my stupid fucking kids have yet to parent trap me with my ex-wife Sharon. When I found out we were having twins, I figured I struck gold. I had been wanting to fuck my assistant Linda ever since I hired her straight out of UCSB, but as a family man I didn’t want to just throw away my little slice of domestic bliss for a hot piece of ass without a contingency plan, ya know? 

But here I had two identical get-out-of-jail-free cards, a couple of bargain price Lohans to throw up the scaffolding if my marriage ever fractured. Send ‘em off to day camp in a few years and boom I’m back with Sharon and Linda’s out of my system. So I splurged on divorce lawyers to lock down the coveted no-contact divided full custody and I studied the hell out of Pavlov to classically condition the twin I won in the settlement to have all the same quirks as her sister. 

I won’t lie to you, it was tough to synthesize a shellfish allergy, but with enough persistence the psychosomatic symptoms pretty much covered it. I littered the house with old polaroids and explicit letters, alongside some unpaid alimony checks to give my little sleuth plenty to work with. I also committed to the role: 25 pounds and three inches of beard later it was pretty clear that I wanted some help. 

But when I came to camp pick-up day there was my kid, elbow rash and all! They hadn’t even tried to pull the wool over my eyes. And there was Sharon with her new husband Dan, looking all happy in their 2019 Prius with a “Coexist” sticker on the back. They took their kid back with them and even offered that mine join them in the Cape for the last week of August. 

What did I do wrong?


Dear Owlet, You have fallen victim to the allure of movie magic. This plan actually only works with triplets and involves a complex rotation-based system. Your marriage is lost forever. Better luck next time!

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