Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Mother @#$%
It occurred to me that I will enjoy this Father’s Day much more than the last Fathers Day. I know that it’s slightly early, but it is on my mind. Largely, because I now have a better understanding of what it means. I used to think Father’s Day was a celebration of just being a Dad, which, let’s face it, is no great feat. Just find some gal crazy enough to sleep with you and one broken condom later… “Bang”, you’re in the club! I now realize that Father’s Day is actually a celebration of all the work that you put in after that day. The bills, the worrying, the sacrifice, the worrying, the worrying. All the way up to the point where the little ungrateful “son of a @#$%” finds his/her own place and moves out. That is unless he buys a crappy little house out in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona at which point you’re roped in for years of helping out with home improvements until he wises up and buys a finished home in the suburbs which Lorna and I will never do, unless the temperature in Hell drops below 32 degrees! Thanks Dad.
So the other day I was on the ramp in my least favorite station, St. Louis. There were two brain surgeons unloading bags from the plane while I was doing my post-flight walk-around. They seemed to be in some sort of conflict regarding events of the previous night when one of them turned to the other and called him a “Mother Fucker.” Now, every human on the planet knows what that means. People living in caves in the Gobi Desert know the impact of that phrase. We learn the meaning of such things the same place we learn all the great lessons of life..."The playground." As kids we learn to verbally joust with such monikers as “jerk”, “dick”, “asshole”, but everyone knows you stay away from “Mother Fucker” unless your tribe is ready to go to war. It’s the Big Kahuna. It’s like saying something about someones mom. It’s the Thermo-Nuclear F-Bomb of the playground. So when you hear two burly guys on the ramp say it, you better duck down and start your video camera.
As I flinched from the impact of the words and turned to see the carnage that must ensue, something occurred to me. I had an epiphany of sorts. No, that’s not right. An epiphany is a moment of enlightenment. This was, rather, the realization that I no longer understood something. When did we decide that a Mother Fucker was a bad thing? Really. It occurred to me that if these two guys turned to me and called me a “Mother Fucker”…What could I say? “Yea…so!” I mean, if you fuck her and she’s a mother, you’re in the club pal! Here’s the secret handshake…Pull up a chair. As guys, we work toward this status for most of our lives. Hell, some of my best friends are Mother Fuckers. Darren… Mother Fucker. Troy… Mother Fucker. Bret…Not a Mother Fucker. Sorry Bret. Ya see, it’s like…not being a Mother Fucker is a bad thing. I think I’m gonna turn the whole world around on this Mother Fucker thing...
Ya know…My dad’s a Mother Fucker. Hell, he’s one of the finest Mother Fucker’s I know. And while I’ve never asked him, I pretty sure he's OK with that.
When you think about it, it’s the very definition of a dad! I mean, if she’s a mother because you fucked her, you’re a dad! Every dad’s a Mother Fucker! This is great, I’m gonna write the government and try to get them to rename Father’s day… Mother Fucker’s Day! What do you think? I’m gonna call Hallmark right now so they can get a head start.
“When I was young you wiped my nose,
you cooked my food and bought my clothes.
You gave me ice cream and a bright red sucker,
So all the best, you Mother Fucker.”
Makes you kind of weepy doesn’t it? Thanks, Dad!
p.s. For those of you who were unable to suspend their sense of social propriety long enough to enjoy this essay in the spirit in which it was intended, the next time you see me, feel free to call me a “Mother Fucker.” No, really, feel free.
It occurred to me that I will enjoy this Father’s Day much more than the last Fathers Day. I know that it’s slightly early, but it is on my mind. Largely, because I now have a better understanding of what it means. I used to think Father’s Day was a celebration of just being a Dad, which, let’s face it, is no great feat. Just find some gal crazy enough to sleep with you and one broken condom later… “Bang”, you’re in the club! I now realize that Father’s Day is actually a celebration of all the work that you put in after that day. The bills, the worrying, the sacrifice, the worrying, the worrying. All the way up to the point where the little ungrateful “son of a @#$%” finds his/her own place and moves out. That is unless he buys a crappy little house out in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona at which point you’re roped in for years of helping out with home improvements until he wises up and buys a finished home in the suburbs which Lorna and I will never do, unless the temperature in Hell drops below 32 degrees! Thanks Dad.
So the other day I was on the ramp in my least favorite station, St. Louis. There were two brain surgeons unloading bags from the plane while I was doing my post-flight walk-around. They seemed to be in some sort of conflict regarding events of the previous night when one of them turned to the other and called him a “Mother Fucker.” Now, every human on the planet knows what that means. People living in caves in the Gobi Desert know the impact of that phrase. We learn the meaning of such things the same place we learn all the great lessons of life..."The playground." As kids we learn to verbally joust with such monikers as “jerk”, “dick”, “asshole”, but everyone knows you stay away from “Mother Fucker” unless your tribe is ready to go to war. It’s the Big Kahuna. It’s like saying something about someones mom. It’s the Thermo-Nuclear F-Bomb of the playground. So when you hear two burly guys on the ramp say it, you better duck down and start your video camera.
As I flinched from the impact of the words and turned to see the carnage that must ensue, something occurred to me. I had an epiphany of sorts. No, that’s not right. An epiphany is a moment of enlightenment. This was, rather, the realization that I no longer understood something. When did we decide that a Mother Fucker was a bad thing? Really. It occurred to me that if these two guys turned to me and called me a “Mother Fucker”…What could I say? “Yea…so!” I mean, if you fuck her and she’s a mother, you’re in the club pal! Here’s the secret handshake…Pull up a chair. As guys, we work toward this status for most of our lives. Hell, some of my best friends are Mother Fuckers. Darren… Mother Fucker. Troy… Mother Fucker. Bret…Not a Mother Fucker. Sorry Bret. Ya see, it’s like…not being a Mother Fucker is a bad thing. I think I’m gonna turn the whole world around on this Mother Fucker thing...
Ya know…My dad’s a Mother Fucker. Hell, he’s one of the finest Mother Fucker’s I know. And while I’ve never asked him, I pretty sure he's OK with that.
When you think about it, it’s the very definition of a dad! I mean, if she’s a mother because you fucked her, you’re a dad! Every dad’s a Mother Fucker! This is great, I’m gonna write the government and try to get them to rename Father’s day… Mother Fucker’s Day! What do you think? I’m gonna call Hallmark right now so they can get a head start.
“When I was young you wiped my nose,
you cooked my food and bought my clothes.
You gave me ice cream and a bright red sucker,
So all the best, you Mother Fucker.”
Makes you kind of weepy doesn’t it? Thanks, Dad!
p.s. For those of you who were unable to suspend their sense of social propriety long enough to enjoy this essay in the spirit in which it was intended, the next time you see me, feel free to call me a “Mother Fucker.” No, really, feel free.
// posted by Chris @ Wednesday, June 07, 2006
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