Sunday, June 21, 2015

A Different Perspective on Father's Day

Before I really get into this post, because it's a bit radical, even iconoclastic, though not intentionally, I'd like to wish fathers out there a happy day.  They don't all have to be fathers of human children, but fathers that nurture animals, too, happen to be just as valuable and worthy of celebration--in my and many people's minds.  So, for fathers everywhere: have a few beers and lots of clams today to celebrate yourself.

On a sort of different subject and for purposes of letting all my followers, admirers (are there any?), and friends who know me well, I'd like to share a very strange thought I had while driving on Seventh Street yesterday.  I was thinking about Father's Day and what it actually meant.  Perhaps I was in a strange mood and not very sympathetic to the famous day that was sending those in traffic around me into a tizzy: pulling out in front of me, speeding to Macy's to buy a pair of boxers for dear old dad, and, otherwise, being rude, harried, and in a general frame of mind that was dissing everyone around them simply because they had avoided doing the Father's Day thing until the last second.  And now, everyone else had to get the hell out of their way in order for them to buy groceries, presents, cards, and whatever else for dad.

Okay: I get that part.  But, then, in my annoyance with the frantic crowd of last-minute Father's Day celebrators, and stopped at the light at Whitehall Family Diner where a lot of older men were shuffling back to their cars with their families, their bellies full of sausage and pancakes, I began to muse on the real nature of Father's Day--to my own amusement.

Now, I'm going to relay this hoping no one is going to rip me a new one because of being offended.  If you're squeamish, if you're so prudish and so "backed-up" that you can't take a joke, then stop reading.  If you want a little guffaw, keep reading.  I can't help the way I think.

So, as I watched, irritated with the traffic, all the men sashaying to their cars in the diner's parking lot, I wondered why all the fuss about Father's Day.  Really?  Why?  Becoming a father, much like a mother, is not anything gargantuan.  Most people have done the reproductive thing over and over again.  It's really no biggie.  Perhaps it should be renamed, I thought.  And then my mind began to imagine, and I began to chuckle to myself as the males and their families staggered to their cars.

I thought perhaps a better wish for Father's  Day would be "Happy Past Ejaculation Day!"  To me, at that moment and in the mood I was in, the name change seemed legit because, scientifically speaking, most men had ejaculated into a vajayjay at sometime, perhaps in the back seat of a Volkswagen Bus, on a rocky cliff off the beaten path at Hawk Mountain, in a drunk-lust fit in the back seat of a car.  You name it; it's been spermed around.  And for this Americans set aside a day for celebration?!  Okay: whatever.

(I apologize already for the mental imagery  I'm sharing with you and probably isn't appreciated in the same way that I appreciated it--with humor.)  I know people out there loved their fathers--so did I--and their fathers are long gone with only memories remaining.  I'm sorry for that, and I know your fathers meant the world to you--and me.  But in that single, solitary moment I, rather unemotionally, contemplated that concept of Father's Day.

Anyway, I think I'm onto something that Hallmark had never considered: a Father's Day card that a six-year-old could present to his or her father on his special day.  It would say something to the effect of "Happy Ejaculation Day!  Thanks for giving me life!  You rock, Dad!"

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