We media types are in the throes of one big political orgasm — diddling ourselves over every nuanced word from the well-coiffed suit behind the podium. Eyeing the coverage is like watching rhetorical porn. Each syllable carefully calculated to turn us into a sweaty mass of pulsating flesh.
I wouldn’t give you two bits for the whole lot of ’em.
Sissy-boys. Pantywaists. Every single one of them.
Think about it.
Dads don’t put up with any of your shit. They cut through the bullcrap, slap you back of the head, and tell you to get your act together. They call a lie a lie, and make you pay for thinking you could get a cock-and-bull story like that past them. Imagine what a dad could do with Congress.
A dad tells it like it is. You don’t like it, tough shit. No namby-pamby, mealy-mouthed explanations. No politically correct, focus-grouped answers. No polling data to determine what color tie he should wear to the big summit. Dad rocks Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals. He’s dad. He’s in charge. Your opinion of him could not be less consequential.
“Because I said so.” End of story. They don’t negotiate. Dads dictate. The rest of the household controls 49% of the vote. Feel free to debate all you like. Dad owns 51%. When he speaks, it’s settled.
Dad’s don’t just threaten to turn this car around and go home. They do it. After they backhand the snot out of your whiney ass. Again, imagine the possibilities on Capitol Hill.
Dads drink beer and bourbon and scotch — manly drinks that put hair their chests. And they let us have a sip every now-and-again so that we don’t turn into candy-assed twats.
Dad’s play harder than they work. After 40 hours working for an asshole that doesn’t appreciate the sweat off his brow, they deserve that privilege. They teach us the value of hard work, fair play and sportsmanship.
They allow us to make mistakes and then shake their heads as we learn to get ourselves out of the shitpile we’ve created. They’ll offer suggestions. We’re usually too damned bullheaded to take them.
Dads love. Unconditionally. No matter how bad we wreck the car, flunk the test, screw our life, they see in us what we can truly become. Dads are there to guide us to a better tomorrow. They refuse to let us give up — on ourselves, our dreams, or each other.
If any party ever got wise, it would put a real dad on the ticket. Of course a real dad would tell the party to go fuck itself. He has work to do.
Editors Note: Real moms, though they lack testicles, are also good dads.