Monday, June 22, 2009

My Father's Day: Surely Better Than Yours

Father's Day means a trip to the Brooklyn Shrine of St. Barbaralletta: Patron St. of Brooklyn Dads. Typical offerings include sheep's balls pounded flat and set ablaze at the fabled statuette's feet.

I won't do anything as cliche as tear this bogus holiday a NEW ONE... Because it's such an easy target, isn't it? This day, vulgarized by the evil empire (Hallmark), on which we pat ourselves on the back for doing what simple decency expects of us. It's so American. Look at me! Look at me! Buy me a new tie!

Still, I must say, when the Life Force Sucker came home from preschool and presented me with a card and a multitude of sweet-mouth kisses, my heart did melt. What sweetness--mouth kisses from my Mini-Me. Mwa mwa mwa mwa!

So, you are wondering, what did Mrs. Unit Parental do or get for me? Did I get mimosas in bed? Was I awarded that elusive bit of conjugal affection all fathers call "The Golden Ticket?" No, I got something better...

Yesterday morning, upon awaking, I was greeted, as usual, by the Life Force Sucker's patented armpit tickles. And then Mrs. Unit gave me my present, wrapped and boxed.

I rubbed my hands together? What could it be! 24 karat golf tees (I don't play!), the new iphone (there's a recession on!)... Oh what! Oh what!

I tore apart the Diego gift wrapper (all we had, apparently) and pried open the lid of the box.

Inside I found a black t-shirt. Okay, I said to myself. A t-shirt. (Boxers would have been better, I started thinking; my collection of Old Navy knickers is in various states of disintegration.) I held up the t-shirt, expecting some cheeky and hipsterish Brooklyn design: like a cherry tree growing out of the burnt out carcass of a 1976 Chevy Nova on blocks... But instead, I saw on this t-shirt the words "self" and "absorbed" printed on the front in blocky white lettering, separated by the cruelest of hyphens...

Good God, dear readers! What a Father's Day morning I had. First, molested in my sensitive armpits by my little sadist. And then shown a most unflattering reflection of myself in what was, unfortunately, NOT a funhouse mirror, not a FAT mirror, but rather, I was shown a reflection of myself in the mirror called love. Because what is love, my dear readers, if not honesty.

Was she right? Was I "SELF-ABSORBED?" I am sorry to say I, the Unit, have been! Guilty! Mea culpa! I am a blogger after all, and therefore, by definition an exhibitionist who wants you to watch as he/she picks at his/her profound navel!

I'll spare you the details of my self-absorption, save to say that it was getting to big-yellow-contractor-sponge proportions.

THE GIST: So, to my dear Mrs. Unit Parental, my Life Force GIVER, the better half in this lopsided three-legged race we're in, I.E., our typical American marriage, I thank you for this gift of bone-crushing honesty. And to the Life Force Sucker, I appreciate the handmade card, even if your teacher wrote all the accurately spelled words inside it--I know you feel love for me in your small, fast-beating heart. And, oh, I appreciate the little mouth kisses! And even the bruising 5:30AM armpit tickles! Extra high-fructose corn syrup for you this week, in whatever highly concentrated and processed form you like!

So, to all, a belated Happy Father's Day! And if you are not one of my international readers, if you are not one of my San Francisco followers, if you are, say, one of my fellow Ditmas Park residents, then you might see me along Cortelyou Road this week in my brand new DUNCE SHIRT...


  1. Yeah, but did she get a matching SELF-ABSORBED onesie for the kid?

  2. Dear Unit:
    Have you ever thought of adding a canine or two to your tightly woven little family. You could then have these furry friends entertain LFS and give you and the Mrs' a few extra minutes to catch up, on whatever married people catch up on! And let me tell you there is NOTHING like a sweet morning kiss from a Westie (or two). T

  3. Dear Unit:
    I love reading your blog. As an avid reader, SELF-ABSORBED sounds just about right.

    I live in your neighborhood and am slowly trying to figure out which dipshit dad you are. If I ever figure it out I might have to give you a slap on your bald head just for fun.

    Keep up the snarky work.