Better Off Dad

Well, Father’s Day is coming up soon.   

Father’s Day.  The time set aside to say “Thanks, Pop!” to the guy who helped conceive you, be it one-night stand, anonymous donor or David Crosby.   

Basically, a nice day to tell dad what you really think of him, to cut the big guy down to size and scream in a purple-faced rage, “I’m sick of you and your rules!”  Of course, he’ll no doubt say, “You think you can take your old man?”  “Yeah!” you’ll shoot back in a false bravado borne of years of intense browbeating.  “I brought you into this world, you snot-nosed punk!  I can take you out!” he’ll sneer.  It’s a bit predictable, but he means it.  After retirement, he’s only gotten more and more bitter.  Sure, he claims he’s down in the basement all day working on his model trains but you smell the alcohol on his breath when he comes up for dinner.  You can hear your mother’s pitiful sobs as she cries herself to sleep every night after hours of arguing, him storming out the door for a walk around the block and her screaming at him about their sham of a marriage and how he hasn’t touched her like a woman in over twenty years.  You’ve read the mad ramblings in the local op-ed pages written by a so-called “concerned citizen” whose name is so obviously an anagram of his.  He’s old, he’s tired, he’s pissed off at the world.  He’s got nothing left to loose.  Hell, he keeps that old Smith & Wesson in the hall closet.  He probably wouldn’t even think twice about using it on you, his own flesh and blood.  But you could just as easily give him a subtle push down the stairs.  With the lights out and his bad knees, he’d hit the basement floor with enough force to snap that bony little neck of his like soggy crayon.  The police wouldn’t suspect.  Mom would be relieved, her misery over.  She could use the insurance money to fly out to Omaha and see Aunt Rita.  And you could pay off your student loans finally.  Yeah, like you’re still not so freaking furious about that anyhow.  You just know he saved up plenty of money over the years and could have easily sent you to the best Ivy League school, but no, no, he had to teach you some kind of “lesson” and make you work like a dog just to get your Master’s.  Now, you’re in debt up to you’re eyeballs and he sits their on his fat ass watching his Weather Channel and yelling at the TV.  Damn him!  Damn him all to hell!!! 


Or maybe you’ll just get him a tie.  Or a Hickory Farms gift certificate.  Yeah, that’ll do it.


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