"...hey, ain't you that
So whaddaya want fer Father's Day??"
What do I want for Father's Day?
I wanna be freakin' DEAD,
that's what I want.
What I will get in lieu of
earthly demise, however, will be
far, far worse than
the big "D" ---
what I will get, and I suspect you will
too, will be some deep-discounted
commodity greeting card
("social expression product," these days),
that's got a mallard
decoy on it,
or some pipe-huffin' Church of the SubGenius
golf dude, or a sepia-colored
workbench with tools that are
sparkly clean and organized and (gasp) blood-free.
Now you've gone and done it.
You've made me
all goofus and
rhapsodical waxing poetic about
Our Day in
Strangely, this mostly secret
meeting place for we angst-up boomers
gets visited with
same frequency if the piece walks the
smarm from schmaltz,
(a line, dear reader, which I
sincerely hope I cross only as a
literary device enabling the
of cheap emotion),
or if it plunges headfirst
delicious abyss of venom and bad taste.
Gosh, we sure have shared a whole heck-of-a-lot
o' quality time together, haven't we?
I mean really.
Day is a perfect time, and surely,
this is the perfect (cyber)
place to pause
and reflect on the very fiber of our dadly-hood.
It's the stuff of dads that relentlessly steamrolls
us every stinkin' day.
It's the stuff that earns us that ducky
It's the stuff that boosts my overall hit count
so maybe I can take this god-forsaken cyber-curse
I have heaped
upon myself to advertisers
and make enough money to pay for my
latest (extortion) brake job.
I have TOLD you why the
an invention only of the purest evil,
though that is certainly nothing new
to any of you who have taken the
name of the Lord and a
Big Three Automaker
in vain together in the same breath.
You've received valuable grooming
useful if, like me,
the ravages of time are
polishing your dadly pate.
We decorated together with our family pet
holidays in a heartwarming,
albeit somewhat squishy and
Zoltar, the Knower of All Things,
you an astonishingly accurate
glimpse beyond the veil into the
very mists of your own future.
have proved beyond a reasonable doubt
that the insidious invention
began the demise of
and ultimately, will decimate mankind
You've even gotten a first-hand
urologic debriefing as you
population-conscious dads entrust the
bifurcation for your vas
to a scrotum-slashing stranger.
And they say there's nothing
value-added about the Web.
Ha! I say.
What about that terrifying weekend Cub Scout trip
Cub Scout tripto a dilapidated
WWII battleship with all the pizza,
chips and salmonella chicken
you care to eat for just one
Or the Walton-sort of
which my sib and I are unwittingly
shanghied into assisting an
undertaker load our
expired matriarch into a Ziploc
into a Ziploc(blue and yellow make green)
to quick-make-room in the turnover-conscious ICU?
We've cut down the suburban
from the very rooftops armed with
more than supersoakers;
flown the heavens clad
only in underwear;
put out a "hit" on a
hapless dogwood for Arbor Day;
hair to our torsos for extra credit;
brought granny BACK from the dead for
and single-handedly wiped out
the entire insect population of the Earth.
Go on and take the jumps down
your old dad.
So what if it's cheap
and I'm working my way through the
serious block I've had in
(a block I had futilely hoped,
the aneurysm I've repeatedly
asked Santa to bring, lo, these many
It's MY day.
And you're supposed to
and let me sleep in today
so I can have one more
which I again, barely, breathlessly escape
faceless and darkly-cloaked doom vibe
that chases and haunts the
endless dadly night.
The merciless One who
no respite or rest ---
the One waiting to claim
the second we break stride and fall.
And when I awaken with the usual
screaming start and I
with the welcome of abated terror
in my bed, an ocean of sweat
soaking through the one threadbare
of pajamas our pathetic budget will allow,
your old dad a piece of burnt toast
heaped with homemade raspberry
jam on the
cheesy (but perhaps eventually collectable)
Fergie and Andy fold-up TV tray;
and bring me a cup of caustic
boiled until every sip rattles
every neuron and
jangles every dadly dendrite.
Then bring me
your art ---
your construction paper Picassos ---
mutant ceramic ashtrays for the
ciggies I can no longer smoke.
of this to me on my day of days,
and unable to keep from smiling
I shall ignore my lower back's ardent pleas
and lift you into the skies; way, way up ---
perhaps for the last
time as you
seem to refuse to stop growing out of childhood ---
and I will coo and gush over your gifts,
and though the words never quite come out
Cleaver way that they should,
from my heart of hearts,
will pledge you my endless love on this,
and every day.
And I will gather you up into my arms
hold you close,
your coffee burning an acid hole
and I will kiss you
and thank you
and tickle you
and you will say,
"...let's do this forever, daddy ---
let's stay this way
And with the silent blessing
of my eternal soul,
I will say yes,
I promise that we
Yes, I swear it.