Fathers Trudge Back To Soul-Shattering Rat Race Like Yesterday Never Happened
This one’s for the Papas. Be strong, gentlemen.
EVERYTOWN, USA - With muted-yet-simultaneously-cacophonous sighs of resignation, Dads from sea to shining sea shut off their alarms, dragged the desiccated husks of their once-sharp minds and formerly-taut bodies from a fitful night’s sleep (none dare call it “rest”), and shuffled off to another Father’s-Day-erasing Monday.
Chirpy, wholly misguided greetings of “How was your big day, Pete?” and “Got treated like a king, amirite, Dave?” were met with blank stares as time-sucking first-thing stand-ups and inboxes overflowing with inanities demanded attention. “I dunno. What do YOU think?” muttered world-weary patriarchs, whose prior 24 hours were spent, as they have been for time immemorial:
Participating in and/or viewing sporting event(s), many of which involved some sort of ball
Ingesting fire-grilled protein(s) paired with deep-fried carbohydrates
Quaffing domestic beer(s) of choice
These moments disappeared with every sip of tepid, criminally flavorless pod coffee under the break room’s flickering fluorescent bulbs.
And yet, they soldiered on.
Said local patriarch Travis Branzino, “Look, the chocolate-chip pancake stack/three-over-easy/extra-crispy bacon combo at the diner was real nice. Spending time in the backyard with my boys Gunner and Stryker might make for nice memories. Might. But all that went out the window at 8:30 AM sharp today, thank-you-very-much Accounts Receivable department at Argus MicroPlane Thermodynamics and my ‘fantastic’ boss, Rodney. And by ‘fantastic,’ I meant ‘not fantastic,’” Branzino added by way of clarification. Across town, even hand-crafted “I Love You, Papa” construction paper cards affixed to cubicle walls brought no joy, what with Kristie from Payroll hovering like The Angel of Death.
Replied the nation’s mothers: “Want some cheese to go with that whine? Welcome to our world, crybabies. Now grab me that jar of marinara from the top shelf.”