Father’s Day is, by far, my favorite holiday. More so because I am one, not because I got some killer old man who brought me up forthright and taught me the dealings of men and I can’t wait to hang out with him. Total opposite. He was a bum, like a real bum. I remember one of the few times I talked to him in my teens after I asked where he was living and he replied:
“Oh around. I don’t really have a place right now but it’s okay. If it gets too cold I just sleep in one of those Port-A-Johns…keeps you outta the wind at least. I kinda got a lady friend too, so once in awhile she’ll let me stay at her place.”
To this day I’m impressed with how honest he was without the slightest hint of shame in his voice. Just the facts, kid. On the other hand all I could do was imagine how disgusting this broad must be to let some drunken transient who just spent all night marinating in a pen-of-a-thousand-beer-shits, stay in her home. Chalk it up to the old Outhouse Charm I guess.
I believe it was while discussing the lameness of Father’s Day some years back with my former significant that we realized how many of us poor bastards there were, especially among our circle of friends. And so from the ashes of this once degrading holiday rose the Dudes Without Dads (DWOD), an exclusive club made up of the fellow abandoned. Actually, it was less of a club and more of a list that ran in each new issue of Skunk. It’s not like we met in a basement once a week or anything but we were all aware of one another and it brought a good sense of humor to our “condition”. I got to thinking about the old gang after meeting up with a few of the early alumni, one of which pointed out that this particular breakfast was officially the first meeting of the DWOD Rad Dads. Which was an awesome point because the majority of us are parents now and actually really like (okay love) our stinkin’ kids.
Anyway, I think there might be a joke in there somewhere.