Color Me Dad

As far as celebrations go, I’m positive towards very few, as I keep reiterating – they make me aware of some highly uncomfortable realities. Birthdays? That’s one year closer to a midlife crisis. Labor Day? We’re all faceless spokes in the grand wheels of capitalism. Valentine’s Day? Everybody will end up cold and alone eventually, Rita. Cold and alone.

I’ve always kept this attitude away from Fathers’ Day. It’s a nice enough appreciation of the unsung half of human reproduction. I can dig it. In recent years, I’ve found it (along with its corporate sellout sibling, Mothers’ Day) to be more prevalent in my life than usual, on account of a surprising number of people I grew up with becoming parents. Related quotes and chain messages fill my feed all day, ultimately leaving me to contemplate what I myself would be as a parent if that should happen. I mean, there’s little chance of that as of now, certainly not in the midst of a clinical inability to flirt beyond five sentences, being friend-zoned by several hookers and the ol’ Dual Flesh Spheres of Life™ sustaining damage from years of break-dancing in skinny jeans.

I call it the “Versace Vasectomy”, but the alliterative title is where the fun ends.

Still, it’s good to dream. I’ll keep my hopes up on this one. It fits well into my new year’s resolution to be more optimistic in hopeless situations.

Wouldn’t it be something? Prancing through this plane of existence alongside a miniature version of myself? Blood of my blood, hallowed spawn sired forth from mine virile loins? It would. It would be something. The Kal-El to my Jor-El. The Michael to my Vito. The Simba to my Mufasa (although if I’m being honest, I’d be Scar in this analogy, seeing as how I have black hair, bruises on my face and a hatred for everybody). A brave boy, my pride and joy, who will grow up to honorably avenge my untimely demise following an altercation between myself and a tiny little dog with rabies.

The two of us trudging through life’s greatest mysteries: Who let the dogs out? Why is a raven like a writing-desk? What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me? Where is Carmen Sandiego? Me further supplementing this quest for knowledge by imparting onto him priceless gems of wisdom that I have gathered during my travels.

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“And that’s why it does not, in fact, taste anything like groceries.”

Man, all this wistful thinking is making me want to fire up my Tinder account and get things going. An heir to my collection of assorted Pokemon merchandise would be a great thing, not only for carrying on my super amazing legacy, but also as a way to keep me too busy to spend hours on end laughing at  random things on the news that could be even vaguely construed into innuendo.

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He-he. “Ends”.

Next Sunday is Fathers’ Day so please make an effort to send some gratitude to a non-deadbeat somewhere – your own, a good father you know or whoever “zaddy” is, I guess.

PS Stay safe, stay woke, hide your feelings and donate to climate change research.

 

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