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Archive for the tag “Father’s Day”


All over the country, dads in torn “#1 Master-Baster” grilling aprons and knee-high black socks down around their ankles, are crawling through the wreckage of another Father’s Day gone by. Faces stained with barbecue sauce. Knees covered in grass stains from ill-advised touch football games with their kids’ high school friends. Pockets bulging with…Alka-Seltzer, Zantac and pain reliever.

While all you dads collapse into your recliners – look out, Maizy, the half-dead dog! – this is a good time to reflect on those little regrets. Sure, you’re all great guys. There’s a whole day dedicated to you, for crying out loud. Still, you could stand some improvement – and we don’t just mean your waistline (though cutting yourself off at a baker’s dozen Italian sausages wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world).

Having trouble thinking of anything? Here, hold my bag of Doritos and jar of peanut butter and I’ll start:

I’m sorry beer bottles don’t make better croquet wickets.

I’m sorry for my Father’s Day movie pick. On the other hand, the kids are pretty young. And it’s summer. Plenty of time to make up the sleep they missed Sunday night.

I’m sorry for the card I picked out for your dad. I think the fart jokes of 18th century Russian poets are a lot funnier than 21st century fart jokes. Sue me.

I’m sorry I wanted to spend the afternoon reading a book. Forgive me for wanting to expand my mind. And “Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue” is, technically, a book.

I’m sorry I called your mom “Dad”.  In my defense…I couldn’t actually remember her name.

I’m sorry dinner took so long. I know it was my idea to grill. I thought you’d like grilled ketchup.

Okay, fine, there were supposed to be burgers to go with the ketchup.

Good news is Maizy loved them.

And she’ll probably recover.

I’m sorry I already spent the gift card. A closet full of gumballs has always been my dream. In hindsight, I probably should have told you before you went to put the coats away.

I’m sorry Father’s Day comes just once a year. There’s only so many empty calories you can pack into one day.

I’m sorry I ate the last Oreo. Wait, no I’m not. It’s my day.

So really the moral of Father’s Day is not to atone for regrets. The moral is:

“Because I’m the dad. That’s why.”

(As long as Mom says it’s okay.)



Mother’s Day has come.

While waiting for Mom to post your bail clean your room chew your food for you relax her weary self as you do something nice for her as payback for all she’s done for you, it’s also a good time to express to her all the ways you’ve been a horrendous offspring. To whit:

I’m sorry about sending you that particular card for Mother’s Day. In my defense, “Mother F’n Cards.com” could have had cards relevant to the holiday. And admit it, you laughed.

I’m sorry my mother punched your mother right in the nose. If it helps make you feel better, I didn’t know what color the blood was either.

I’m sorry for my Mother’s Day gift. I thought that bottle would make a nice vase. I kept the scotch for myself. So sue me.

I’m sorry for what I did in the family photo. In my defense, the photo was my brother’s idea and he’s an idiot. Should have known better.

I’m sorry Mother’s Day brunch didn’t go well. How was I supposed to know you were allergic to eggs? Okay, so, yeah, I’ve known you the whole forty years of my life…

I’m sorry I didn’t call on Mother’s Day. I couldn’t get good phone reception. Whatever you’re insulating your basement with, it wreaks havoc with cell reception. By the way, I need more Pop-Tarts down here.

I’m sorry Mother’s Day comes but once a year. Especially since visitations at the prison are allowed EVERY WEEK.

I’m sorry for my other Mother’s Day gift. But, hey, you and Dad have something in common. He hated that tie too, when I gave it to him for Father’s Day last year.

I’m sorry the kids didn’t call on Mother’s Day. In hindsight, I suppose I should have given them our number.

I’m sorry I was so hard to raise. On the other hand, Dr. Parks says your therapy is coming along nicely.

I’m sorry for giving you a box of candy for Mother’s Day. I agree. The orange crèmes are neither orangey nor creamy enough for any sane person. What the hell was I thinking?

I’m sorry my sister couldn’t be at your party. Restraining orders can be so…restrictive.

I’m sorry for writing you that song. While it’s true that flatulence is hilarious,  a Mother’s Day song is not necessarily the best showcase.

I’m sorry I don’t have an ending for this piece about being sorry on Mother’s Day. On the other hand, Dr. Parks says my therapy is coming along nicely.


Shhh! Stop making so much noise, you kids! You’ll wake up your father…Well, he’s still in bed because today’s Father’s Day and he gets to sleep in. Yeah, I know, that’s pretty funny. Go ahead and fight with your brother over who gets the “good” chair SO LOUDLY that Dad can’t even pretend it didn’t wake him up.

Poor Dads. We’re a put-upon species. We get to run the hot grill in the steamy summer months and clean the stinky litter box year round. And for what? Well, getting to eat and not having smelly felines, but other than that…not much.

But do we complain? Hell no! We let it fester and work out our aggressions in other ways. After all, that’s what basketball leagues for middle-aged dudes are for.

One good way to release stress is to purge ourselves of our guilt. To whit:

I’m sorry the burgers I grilled last week were burned. On the upside, you totally had no clue one of them was that baseball that stupid kid two doors down keeps hitting into our yard.

I’m sorry that the color “Cheeto-dust” is not acceptable for business attire.

I’m sorry Gene Wilder hasn’t made a movie in a long time. (Has nothing really to do with being a dad, just bummed about it.)

I’m sorry that the things I like to do on Father’s Day – take a nap, eat something off the grill, drink to excess, eat pie, take another nap – are pretty much just the same things I like to do other days.

I’m sorry I felt compelled to prove the old schoolyard threat, “My Dad can beat up your dad.” Twice. In my dad’s defense, your dad is a pretty big wuss.

I’m sorry this year’s Father’s Day gathering was rained out…by Grampa peeing off the second-floor balcony.

I’m sorry Pop-Tarts are not considered their own food group with a more prominent place on the Food Pyramid.

I’m sorry the USDA replaced the Food Pyramid with that other chart-thingy they use now.

I also sorry the pre-Internet days are gone, back when Slim Goodbody and Schoolhouse Rock were all the “educational programming” kids needed.

I’m sorry your father was such a crushing disappointment. But that’s no reason to not answer the door. I know you’re in there!

I’m sorry garbage still has to be taken out on Father’s Day and, apparently, NO ONE ELSE is going to do it.

I’m sorry Father’s Day brunch didn’t go the way you hoped. On the upside, I did get that Hooters’ waitress’s phone number.



It’s ben a little distracting around here what with all the banging and clanging coming from down the hall at Muppet Labs. Who knew being where the future is being made today could be so damn noisy?

Still, we’re quite proud here at Pepper HQ to be able to announce our own abomination in the name of science.

Here, let me show you.

*Inserts giant, old-timey key into oversized padlock that holds the chain barring the stout, wooden door. Chains clatter to the floor and the door creaks open ever so slowly. A tall man lumbers out wearing khakis, an officially licensed athletic sweatshirt, and sensible shoes. He looks a little bewildered.*

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…FRANKEN-DAD!

Cue Fay Wray screams

Fear not. He’s gentle. He’s harmless. Yes, a little cranky in the morning and around snack time. And yes, he breaks lots of stuff, but then he fixes it. In honor of Father’s Day this week, I have created for you the ultimate Father’s Day gift: THE PERFECT DAD.

Popular entertainment over the decades has been filled with memorable dads. Only now have we developed the technology to synthesize the best things about those dads and put them all into one pop. We have harnessed the best bits of those classic TV dads and put them into ours. Behold:

The shell is Jack Carter from TV’s “Eureka”, father to Zoe – tall, fit without being obsessively muscular, close cropped-no nonsense haircut. The befuddled grin and stubble top off the look. You can put him in jeans and he’s ready to go, but he can do a suit if you want the white-collar dad instead.

The wisdom is courtesy of “Brady Bunch” patriarch Mike Brady. A blended family of eight kids tasked with coming up with yet another set of hijinks each and every week drove mom Carol Brady and housekeeper Alice batty. Not Mike Brady though. Everyone would be freaking out about the latest crisis – Marsha’s busted nose, Cindy’s missing doll, Mommy can’t sing on Christmas morning, whatever – and Mike would shuffle in and be all like, “Chill, dudes. You see kids…” then he’d tell them what’s up and how to fix it. Everyone would go, “You’re right, Dad!” and be all happy again. Then Mike Brady could go off camera and drink or whatever he did to make it through such a demanding life.

The clothes are courtesy of Cliff Huxtable . Think about “The Cosby Show” and you remember two things, right? Pudding pops and the sweaters Cosby always wore. They just said, “I’m a dad,” didn’t they?

The urge to avoid confrontation and fix stuff comes from Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor. That guy was always rebuilding the lawn mower for more power, souping up the vacuum cleaner, whatever. Something would explode or otherwise meet an untimely end and someone in the family would get pissed. Tim wouldn’t know what to do so he’d go chat over the back fence with Wilson who’d give him marching orders and Tim would go carry them out. Our perfect dad, we believe, harnesses the Tool Man’s creativity, tempered by Mike Brady’s wisdom. If not, well, double-check your homeowner’s insurance.

The sense of humor is from Homer Simpson. Sure, Homer’s an idiot, but he’s a big-hearted, laid back idiot. Dads don’t always need the witty repartee of a Broadway play to laugh. Sometimes, they need “Spider-pig, spider-pig…!”

So, before I put Franken-Dad away until next year – Wave, Franken-Dad!  *Franken-Dad waves maniacally* – let me just say this: It doesn’t matter if your dad is tall or short, fat or thin, smart or dumb as a politician, funny or dry as paste left in the school supply box too long. He’s a dad, he does his best. And if he doesn’t, well, help him. He needs it.


Thanks to whoever put these pictures on Google Images

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