As you can probably discern from my previous posts I am a fun-loving guy (read: man-whore). I am always in the mood for a good celebration and frequently reach across national and religious aisles to celebrate (especially if said celebration involves a national drink or presents). However, there is one holiday that I am quite content not celebrating for a few more years. That holiday is Father's Day.
Father's Day is the one day in the year that Father's are rewarded for all the hard work that they do the other 364 days of the year. (Please do not confuse this day with Steak and a Blow Job Day, which is celebrated by all men). For most Father's this day comes as a reprieve from their drab lives and lulls them into a false sense of happiness. As if the gift we get our father's that they never really wanted in the first place is adequate compensation for the years of changing diapers and lost dreams.
As appealing as this life might sound (make no mistake one day, when enough liver and brain cells have been killed off I will crave this life) Father's Day usually means something completely different for men of 22 years of age living transient life styles such as myself. For us, it usually means one thing… we fucked up.
Maybe you took my blog post on condoms a bit too seriously; maybe you were a bit too drunk that one night; maybe some girl really really wanted you to be her baby-daddy. There could be hundreds of reasons why you are receiving a gift on Father's Day. None of them are good.
It is for this reason that every year on the third sunday of June (the day when Father's Day is celebrated in case you didn't know you ungrateful children) I like to take a moment to think about all the bullets I've dodged. And as the day ends and I am sure that I have received no "DADA" phone calls and no gifts/cards are in my mailbox I prepare to embark on another fun filled year.
