By Jason Mayo of Outnumbered
I am not a breakfast in bed type of guy. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t make any sense to me. It never has. Why the hell would anyone want to eat a stack of flapjacks and a pound of bacon, while lying horizontal under the covers? It’s bad enough I find remnants of Goldfish crackers under my pillow. I don’t need maple syrup stuck to my sheets. It also makes the room smell and it gives me a headache. Oh and there’s no place to put the Orange Juice either. Please don’t bother.
I don’t carry a ton of cash on me. It’s not my nature. I usually have less than $10 on my person at any given time. I’m also not allowed to use the ATM without my wife yelling at me. Maybe the two have something to do with each other. For whatever reason, please refrain from buying me any sort of money clip or wallet. I don’t care if it has a silk screen of my favorite team’s logo on it. Not interested.
I also don’t wear a suit to work. Ever. As a matter of fact, I haven’t worn a real suit since my Bar-Mitzvah, back in 1983. Baruch Atah A don’t care. There’s no need to. I don’t work in a bank and I don’t make a ton of client calls. I wear jeans and a t-shirt most of the time. You don’t need to be a mathematician to figure out that I don’t need a new tie. Especially not a tie with Golf clubs on it. You know why? Because I don’t play Golf anymore. You know why? Because I have kids.
I think plants are a pain in the ass. I used to have a bunch of them and then I realized that it made me feel like I was living in a damn jungle. A jungle that needed to be watered every other day… By me. I’m done with plants. Let someone else help with the whole oxygen thing. I’m too busy. So…With that being said; for heaven’s sake do not bring me African Violets or some other little piece of greenery. I’ll only wind up killing it. On purpose. Plant euthanasia but I’ll make it look like a suicide.
Father’s Day is fast approaching. This is a warning shot across the bow. Honey, get those little Munchkins in line and figure out your plan. I’m holding you personally responsible for any and every piece of crap that comes my way. Consider this a hostile situation. It’s your call. Either talk to the terrorists or go by the book. In any case, here are my demands for Father’s Day:
1) I want to sleep late.
Not like 8:03am late, with the kids singing Bah Bah Black Sheep, right outside the bedroom door, late but a respectable late. Let’s say 10:00am. This would be acceptable.
2) I want to go out for breakfast.
I don’t want lame Fruity Cheerios with regular milk. Just because that’s what the kids can make by themselves, doesn’t mean I want it for breakfast. Screw them. It’s my day and I only get one shot. Besides, I’m Lactose intolerant and milk gives me Diarrhea. I have one word for you. IHOP.
3) I want at least one full hour at the Gym.
I never get to go and I will need to sweat off about 1000 calories after I stuff my fat, Father’s Day face at IHOP. I’m doing it for you. This body doesn’t sexy itself.
4) I want to watch TV.
I understand that it’s not practical for me to watch TV for the entire day. I just want to watch one program of my choice… Uninterrupted. I choose Lucio Fulci’s, 1980 horror classic, City Of The Living Dead (aka The Gates of Hell). It might be best if you take the kids out for a bit. It’s not age appropriate, for anyone really.
5) I want pepperoni and that three different color cheese assortment.
Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about. That cheese thing that you never let me buy. There’s a yellow one, a white one and that pretty red one and they all have those fake nuts all over the outside. Looks like a giant cheese turd. I love that shit. Makes my mouth water. That will definitely give me Diarrhea as well but I don’t care. It’s Father’s Day.
Just let me do my thing. I’ll pick the menu and do the grilling. I promise I won’t sodomize a chicken with a beer can. Not this time, anyway. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll even throw in a plain, thin, chicken cutlet for ya. Maybe I’ll even grill some Goldfish crackers for the Rugrats. I’ll get it done, on my terms.
7) Beer, Vodka and more Beer.
I won’t make an ass out of myself, I swear. Just don’t count my drinks on this day. I promise I will drink responsibly. It’s a Dad’s birth right. I don’t smoke cigars, so I need to make up for it on the back end. I might even spring for the good stuff. After all, your Dad will be there too. I need to impress. Can you say Schlitz?
What? I’ve gone this far. I might as well throw it out there. No? OK. No back rub. I guess I can’t have my three cheese assortment and eat it too.
You have until sundown to meet my demands. Or is it high noon? I always forget.
I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a chance to pick what’s behind door #2. I’d be fine with either choice but I’ll leave it entirely up to you. You feel lucky, punk?
Drum roll please…
Behind door #2 just happens to be a full day’s supply of hugs and kisses from my two beautiful angels and my hot, awesome Wifey. I don’t need all of that other Hoo-Ha and gobbledygook. No sir, not I. I’m a simple man with simple needs.
Father’s Day is the perfect day to be Out-Numbered…
Can I still get the back rub? Never mind.
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