People who celebrate Father’s Day and People who are ungrateful tools
I am a woman of few pet peeves. Though I may grow a stomach ulcer whenever anyone uses the word ignorant, ignorantly (boo-ya bitches) and dry heave whenever an adult woman complains that she is cold in 85 degree weather, in general I try to be a pretty laid back gal. But there are some sins of humanity that cannot be ignored. There is one thing this week, that irks me to the point of needing a new word to describe my annoyance (exasperate? aggravate? madden?). I cannot tolerate when people don’t celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day
Before proceeding I must of course account for those people who have the right to not celebrate. Those who have lost their parents, those who do not know their parents, “The Child Called It”, and others with generally shitty parents.
Aside from that, all others who do not celebrate these holidays need to be dragged into the street and shot. Or something slightly less dramatic and less illegal. Let’s be real. But if you are one of these no class, free-loading leeches, who don’t celebrate these holidays solely because it is a “Hallmark holiday” you might as well go curl up and die.
Do I sound like a bitter mother whose children abandoned her in a nursing home right after her 65th birthday? No, not really. Holy, crow, I’m a 22 year old woman. Read someone else’s blog, a-hole. But if you are still reading and wondering why I feel so strongly about this, then drop those pupils to the next paragraph.
Your parents had sex. I know. Kill me. But they did. Lots of it. Tons of it. They lost their jobs and couldn’t pay their bills cause they were too busy having sex. You had to wear used underwear from the Salvation army, because your parents were too busy having sex. You had to drop out of private school and attend public schools where kids peed in each other’s lockers and ate their napkins for lunch, because your parents were too busy having sex. Ok, you get it.
So as a result they had you, the biggest regret of their lives. Crying all the time, throwing food, taking a dump on everything, and generally being a huge pain in the groin. But with weed and prescription pills, they dealt with that. They dealt with your swamp ass diapers and constant whining. They even burped you, when you were too lazy to do it yourself.
Eventually you decide all of this revolting bathroom humor isn’t enough to really mess with them. So you get a little older, little bigger, and decide to start ruining all their stuff. The stuff they bought with the money they made from the job they had to get once they had you. You spill your Pediasure on their newly paid off couch. Take your Crayola’s to the wall and write slurs about their bathroom habits, “Mommy smells like Poop,” “Daddy farts.” In other words, you become a real asshole.
A few years later, you get a little taller, a little hairier, and a lot bitchier. You start to pretend that you, in your measly thirteen year old mid-pubescent body, with your acne, weird body odors and confusion about the real use of tampons, know more about life than these people. These people who have literally had to wipe your ass with their hand on a camping trip when you wouldn’t stop defecating and went through all of your diapers on the first night. These people who have had to deal with your incessant voice-cracking pestering because you want the same cell phone that your friend Wyatt’s abusive parents bought him in payment for the eternal emotional scars they have left. But do you care? No. All you care about are glitter pens and sexting on your iPhone.
A few years later, you begin to grow out of this. Right when you start to become a tolerable human being, you go off to college, meet someone, move away and only visit on Christmas and Easter. And your parents are left in the dust of all the destructive torture you have put them through during the first two decades of your life.
Then May and June roll around. After calling you for months at a time to no avail, they finally catch you when you’re on your way out the door for a night of hard clubbing. The conversation goes something like this:
Daughter: “Ummm…..hahahah, shut up, Amber…..Hello?……HELLO?????”
Father: “Patricia? Honey? Is that you?”
Daughter: “What? Who is this?”
Father: “Patricia, dear. It’s your Dad.”
Daughter: “Dad? Um, what do you want? I’m leaving….hahahhaa, stop it Kimber!”
Father: “Oh, where are you going?”
Daughter: “Just out, Dad.”
Father: “Oh. Well, I haven’t talked to you for awhile. We wanted to see how you are.”
Daughter: “I’m fine. Busy. Work’s great. I really gotta go.”
Father: “Oh, well I won’t keep you. But I was wondering if you’d be available for-“
Daughter: “Ummmm…probably not. I’m really busy. Chad’s parents are having a Father’s Day picnic and I’m going to visit them.”
Father: “Oh. You’re visiting Chad’s dad for Father’s Day?”
Daughter: “Um, yeah. I mean, Chad really wants to and I love him so……yeah….hahhaa….quiet, Kimmy!”
Father: “Oh. Will I get to see you at all?”
Daughter: “I.D.K., Dad. Look I gotta go. Tell mom, I love you, BYE!!!
Dad is left in the dark, lonely corner of his recently remodeled home that you never bothered to come see. He is nursing a bottle of whiskey, as your mother watches Leno in the other room, wondering where he went wrong and what he did with his life.Wondering why he gave up all the great sex, all the vacations, all of the fun times he could have had with your mom before she got stretch marks and a permanently flabby hoo-ha.
Quite a grim picture, huh?
So this Father’s Day, instead of being a Patricia or being a Chad, do the right thing and be a good son or daughter. Give your dad a call. Buy your dad a card. Make a surprise visit to his house. In other words, don’t be a douchebag.
The girl who is running late to lunch with her dad