Sunday, June 21, 2009

Do you know what you’re getting your dad for Father’s Day?

Mother’s Day, that Hallmark holiday scheduled to suck in more of your money before you blow it on vacations, just passed. Good ol’ mom. Made her cards in grammar school. Spent some of that part time job money in high school. Got that first job and took her somewhere nice. Prided yourself on how well you treated her, especially that Sunday in May. My mother, two weeks ago, just opened that MP3 player I gave her as a present three years ago.

Father’s Day. School is out, so no home made cards. You hit him up for gas money to get to your part time job. You get your first real job, and conveniently forget to repay the money he lent you to get your first real car. It’s right before the Fourth of July. Who has time to make that big of a deal about it? He’ll like this tie. He has no style anyway.

As of right now, I am taking a stand. Dads, it is time for us to stop settling for bunk gifts, re-gifts, and hugs on this special day. It is about as stupid as when we settle for sex as a present on Valentines Day. Having done a poll of my buddies, we have received, to date, playing cards, apple juice (the kind they hand out on airplanes in the little cups), cologne that could kill roaches on contact, disposable razors, socks that match nothing in our wardrobe, and ties that are just plain ugly.

And that’s what we get from our ladies. Oh, that and sex. The same sex we got two days before.

Our kids? They forget it’s Father’s Day until breakfast. Then, in an attempt to make up for it, wash our car, afterwards hitting us up for more money than a detail shop. Then they beg for a ride.

This has got to stop. I agree Moms are important. You all have the better PR machine, I’ll give you that. Somehow, although this child production process is a joint effort, the word is out about you all doing all the work. Work? This isn’t rocket science. You didn’t conduct any tests or research. We had a good time, hopefully, and if not, hey, I did. It was over. Nine months later here comes Spike. That’s not work. That’s the result of your body having an allergic reaction to my body fluids. Yes, you carried the bundle for nine months, harming your precious figure. In return, you went through that right of female initiation, childbirth. As a result, you were fully inducted into that sacred order that justifies you blaming me and my kind for all of the earth’s ills. OK. I get it.

Still, do you HAVE to get all the good gifts? Let’s trade for a year or two. The first set of cheap panty hose the offspring give you on Mother's Day will stop reproduction in its tracks, worldwide.

I like being a dad. It’s usually a fun job, and most dads I run into all share that weary, “Yeah, we’re oppressed, but we’re happy slaves” look when we meet. It’s 24 hours a day, 7 days a week job, and I don’t get the calls mom gets. Mom gets, “Hey, Ma, you feeling OK? Thinking about you.”

I get, “Hey, Dad, I know you thought I was upstairs in my room, and I’ll explain later, but this officer wants to talk to you.”

Moms get the wistful yet affectionate, “Yeah, I deserved that whuppin’. What was I thinking?”

Dads? “I’m still in the therapy you pay for, discussing why you harmed my inner child that one time you raised your voice when I set our house on fire. Can I have twenty bucks?”

I get to be the sage and the bad guy. No one threatens my boy, “Wait ‘til I tell your mother…” Actually, someone did once, and then Mom, boy and threatener all laughed. Hard.

Moms get the house. We get the yard and garage. Do you see the pattern?

Almost from a child's birth, Dad is set up to get the bad news, be the ogre, and basically just bear the headache of living with his women and children, who only tolerate him because they may one day need bail money or someone to abuse. Funny. We are the psychologists, the rational thinkers, the arbiters, the repairmen, the exterminators, the ego boosters, the ones that tell ya’ll to enjoy life to the fullest, just pay your bills on time. In return, we go through life treated like two legged pets. Fun at times, necessarily menacing, and finally, worthy of being put down after dedicated service to the unit. Everybody loves Ol'Yeller when he's dead. Is it any wonder our gifts suck?

I want every father reading this to get his friends together, and in unity, we demand better stuff on our day. We want electronics. We want gift certificates to the golf supply store (because ya’ll always by the wrong stuff, and it’s cheap to boot). We want our car detailed, professionally, without anyone asking to borrow it for at least 48 hours afterwards. We want to eat crap without being looked at askance. What you lookin’ at me for? I’m insured! Or are you counting down? We want you to pick up and drop the kids at school for once, and on that day, could you also take Junior to baseball practice? AND coach? We don’t want to hear you yapping on the phone to your sisters, who don't have men and hate all of us as a result. We damn sure don’t want to hear about some lame that doesn’t do his job as a father. We ain't him. We want to watch the movie with the cars and guns and not one woman sobbing over “the relationship” in it. We want you to turn that “Honey Do” list into one that says “To Do”. Then you do what's on it.

Kids? Socks? No. Let’s shoot for something higher. Ball point pens? Uh-uh. $7 stuff from the “Get Dad What He Wants” sale section at TJ Maxx? Man. You ever notice we never shop in that section? When will I ever need a combo shortwave/flashlight/siren that runs on batteries no longer sold in this country? We don’t want any bad phone calls. We want to think, for once, that we aren’t just a piece of furniture. Ol’ Dad. Always there, always ready. No. This year, make it Daddy is outside shooting stuff with his new Canon EOS that we didn’t ask for his charge card to buy him.

If Dad is no longer with you, give that man his props. While he was here, nobody was more firmly in your corner. Everybody wants to feel appreciated.

The big piece of chicken ain’t getting’ it anymore.