Sunday Sign of Hope 6/18/06
Happy Fathers Day!
Well, I did the same for Mothers Day so it's only right that I do it today to celebrate fathers everywhere.
Today is the day we take 24 hours to say thanks to the men in our lives that decided to stay around and help raise us. (To those of you whos fathers did the split move, today is the day you get a free pass to punch a random father in the face. Just tell em Mad Man told you it was okay and I'll handle the lawsuit) By instilling a healthy amount of fear in us that he may just one day murder us, our fathers, or anti-moms as I like to call them, remind us everyday that if they had had the money for condoms, their lives would be a lot easier. They spent most of our childhoods working to provide money to pay the bills for a house we systematically would destroy. Their reward? The big piece of chicken.
Ruling with an iron fist and a complete lack of comprehension as to what is happening around them, they are the yardworkers, the car experts, and the wanna-be explosives experts. Many a day my mother told me to go see what my father was doing before he blew the house up. Most the time he was napping, but once I caught him with plastic explosives. As soon as their child is born, a fathers sense of direction and ability to handle tools with the simpliest form of hand-eye cooridination flutters by like a gay kid playing hopscotch. They build and destroy...but mostly destroy.
They are the voice of discipline. "Wait till your father gets home" is a sentence that when utter to a children, creates a fear so genuine that the child, completely aware that they have no where else to go, will pack a bag with one sandwich and an apple, which is believed able to sustain life permeantly on the run, no clothes, and run away to the backyard to live one with nature. They are the confused. Many times my mother sicked my father on me like a rabid pitbull only to then yell at him that he was going to kill me if he hit me again.
When we are children we look at our dads like they are superman. Then, as we get older we realize he's just a normal man who likes to wear a cape and some pantyhose. As we age, they quickly go from the masters of our universe to a sad old man who needs to be watched at all times. They are the broken, the dreamers whos dreams were shattered when his girlfriend or wife missed her period and they are a constant reminder of what could have been if you were never born. They love their daughters more than anything in the world and are protective of them as if the little girl is made of glass and needs to be nutured and handled with care. They beat their sons to make them stronger and are always the first ones to give us our first glimpse of a naked woman whether they mean to or not. (I knew where the Playboys were Dad)
All in all, we should thank our fathers for allowing us to live, for the sacrifices they made and will continue to make until that sweet release of death they've been praying for from the moment we spawned from our mothers wombs takes them to a better place. (I have a feeling that if Heaven is real, my father won't speak to me there) We thank them for not blowing the house up and if they did, we thank them for not doing it again. We thank them for loving us the best they knew how and we thank them for the beatings cause they kept us in line. We thank them with the biggest piece of chicken cause they earned it. Happy Fathers Day.
Well, I did the same for Mothers Day so it's only right that I do it today to celebrate fathers everywhere.
Today is the day we take 24 hours to say thanks to the men in our lives that decided to stay around and help raise us. (To those of you whos fathers did the split move, today is the day you get a free pass to punch a random father in the face. Just tell em Mad Man told you it was okay and I'll handle the lawsuit) By instilling a healthy amount of fear in us that he may just one day murder us, our fathers, or anti-moms as I like to call them, remind us everyday that if they had had the money for condoms, their lives would be a lot easier. They spent most of our childhoods working to provide money to pay the bills for a house we systematically would destroy. Their reward? The big piece of chicken.
Ruling with an iron fist and a complete lack of comprehension as to what is happening around them, they are the yardworkers, the car experts, and the wanna-be explosives experts. Many a day my mother told me to go see what my father was doing before he blew the house up. Most the time he was napping, but once I caught him with plastic explosives. As soon as their child is born, a fathers sense of direction and ability to handle tools with the simpliest form of hand-eye cooridination flutters by like a gay kid playing hopscotch. They build and destroy...but mostly destroy.
They are the voice of discipline. "Wait till your father gets home" is a sentence that when utter to a children, creates a fear so genuine that the child, completely aware that they have no where else to go, will pack a bag with one sandwich and an apple, which is believed able to sustain life permeantly on the run, no clothes, and run away to the backyard to live one with nature. They are the confused. Many times my mother sicked my father on me like a rabid pitbull only to then yell at him that he was going to kill me if he hit me again.
When we are children we look at our dads like they are superman. Then, as we get older we realize he's just a normal man who likes to wear a cape and some pantyhose. As we age, they quickly go from the masters of our universe to a sad old man who needs to be watched at all times. They are the broken, the dreamers whos dreams were shattered when his girlfriend or wife missed her period and they are a constant reminder of what could have been if you were never born. They love their daughters more than anything in the world and are protective of them as if the little girl is made of glass and needs to be nutured and handled with care. They beat their sons to make them stronger and are always the first ones to give us our first glimpse of a naked woman whether they mean to or not. (I knew where the Playboys were Dad)
All in all, we should thank our fathers for allowing us to live, for the sacrifices they made and will continue to make until that sweet release of death they've been praying for from the moment we spawned from our mothers wombs takes them to a better place. (I have a feeling that if Heaven is real, my father won't speak to me there) We thank them for not blowing the house up and if they did, we thank them for not doing it again. We thank them for loving us the best they knew how and we thank them for the beatings cause they kept us in line. We thank them with the biggest piece of chicken cause they earned it. Happy Fathers Day.
posted by A Mad Man at 8:48 AM
2 Comments:
You sound like you have. . . . . . issues?
Not me...not anymore...not since I discovered alcohol.
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