Fun Fathers Day Story

[Alex]

from "shitmydadsays"

Father’s Day has never been a big deal at my house. My dad hates celebrations. He goes through the motions for Christmas because it means a lot to my mom. He’ll put up with Easter because it means he gets to eat ham. “You can pretty much get to do whatever you want if you give me ham,” he’s said many times in my life. But Father’s Day is technically his holiday, and therefore he feels he has the right to squash it in our house. “Anyone can ****ing procreate, and most eventually do. I refuse to celebrate a statistical probability,” he announced on Father’s Day when I was seventeen. I was about to graduate from high school, and my relationship with my dad during the last year had been rocky. Everything we did seemed to annoy one another. I dealt with the friction by avoiding being in the house while he was there, and he dealt with it by repeating the phrase, “You mind? I’m watching the ****ing Nature Channel.” So when he told me on the morning of Father’s Day that year that he would not partake in a celebration, frankly, I was fine with it. But my mother was not.

That night I sat on my bed reading a brochure from San Diego State University, where I was heading in the fall, when the door to my room opened and my father entered. “Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing,” he said. “I’m just looking at some of the classes they have at State,” I said. “Oh yeah? Like what?” “You want to know?” “Ah, **** it, not really. Listen, your mother thinks you’re going to go off to college and hate me and then we’re not going to be friends again until I’m dying and I got a wad of **** in my pants. That’s bullshit right?” “Ah – “ “So, look, I’m not an easy guy to get along with. I know that. But you know I would murder another human being for you if it came down to it. Murder. ****ing homicide. If it came down to it.” “Why would you need to do that for me?” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe you get mixed up in some gambling **** or you screw some guy’s wife or – don’t matter. Not my point. My point is: I may seem like an asshole, but I mean well. And I want to tell you a story,” he said, taking a seat on the foot of my bed before quickly jumping up.

“Your bed smells like ****. Where can I sit that doesn’t smell like ****?” I pointed to my desk chair, which was covered with dirty clothes. He brushed the clothes onto the ground and collapsed in the chair. “Just for your information, this chair also smells like ****. This isn’t a non-****-smelling option. In case a girl comes over or something.” “What’s your story, Dad?” I snapped. “I ever tell you how I mangled my arm?” he asked, pointing to the large, white crescent-shaped scar that practically circled his entire elbow. “Yeah, lots of times. You were, like, ten and you were on the farm and you fell off a tobacco wagon, then the wagon rolled over it.” “Right. But I ever tell you what happened after the wagon rolled over it?” “Maybe.”

He leaned back in the chair. “I was laying on the ground, bones poking through my skin. Your Aunt Debbie is just going ape-****. They pop me in our car, and we drive forty-five minutes to Lexington to the doctor’s. This is 1946 Kentucky, and my town was a **** stain on a map so we had to drive to the city. So the doc sees me, dresses the wounds best he can, and puts me up in the hospital bed. At this point I’m about to pass out on account of the pain.” “I almost had that happen once,” I interrupted. “No you didn’t. So anyway, I’m lying in my hospital bed when your Grandpa gets there. And your Grandpa was a tough son of a bitch. He wasn’t like how you knew him; he softened up in his nineties. So Grandpa grabs the doc, and your Aunt Debbie and the two of them go outside my room. I can hear them talking, but they don’t know that. The doc tells your Grandpa that they think there’s a good chance that an infection has already taken hold in my arm. And Grandpa, in that scratchy voice he’s got, asks what that means. And the doc tells him it means they have some medicine they can give me that might kill the infection, but it might not, and if it doesn’t, I’ll die.” “You heard the doctor say that?” “Yep.” “What’d you do?” “What do you mean? I had ****ing bones coming out of my elbow. I didn’t do ****. So the doc tells Grandpa that there’s a 50/50 chance the medicine works. But then he says there’s another option.

He tells my Grandpa if they amputate my arm at the elbow, there’s a 100 percent chance that I’ll live.” “What did Grandpa say?” I asked, inching toward the edge of the bed. “He said, ‘Give him the medicine.’ And the doc says, ‘But there’s a 50 percent chance he’ll die.’ Then it’s quiet for a bit. Nobody making a ****ing peep. Then I hear Grandpa clear his throat and say, ‘Then let him die. There ain’t no room in this world for a one-armed farmer.” My dad fell silent and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out. My dad hadn’t told me many stories about his father at this point, and I wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the man. This was the first time I had gotten a glimpse. “Man, I’m really sorry, Dad.” “Sorry for what?” he asked, his face morphing into a look of confusion as he sat up straight in the chair. “Well, that’s, I don’t know, that’s really… messed up. I can’t believe Grandpa did that.” “What in the **** are you talking about? The man saved my arm! They were going to cut off my arm and he saved it.

That’s my point: Grandpa could be an asshole sometimes but when it came down to it he was there for me.” “That’s what you took from that?” “Hell yes. I don’t know what else you were expecting me to take. Imagine me with one goddamned arm. Be a ****ing disaster. Anyway, just like Grandpa cared about me, I care about you and I don’t want you out there hating me, cause I don’t hate you. I love the **** out of you.” He stood up, ironing his pants’ front with his hands. “Jesus H. Christ, do something about the ****ing smell in this room.” Fourteen years later, on this Father’s Day, despite his reluctance to celebrate the holiday, I’d like to thank my dad for everything he’s done for me and advise him: If a wagon ever crushes me, let’s not roll the dice. Cut off my arm, Dad. There’s more than enough room in this world for a one-armed writer.

Justin Halpern June 2011

[Alex]

Funny. I didn't realize how many words it would bleep out when I pasted it here.

[drowe531]

The show they made out of this was very mediocre but the website is funny.

[reaubideux]

So, I read all of that, good story, but all I could keep thinking about is "why is the son 'about to graduate from high school' at Father's Day?" Father's Day is in the end of June. I know I've heard about different areas of the country having odd school calendars where the kids go to class year-round but they go for 6 weeks, then off for 2 weeks, or something like that. Does California use this type of school schedule?

[Live2ride]

Our local high schools just let out for summer break / graduation last Friday. We had so many snow days when I was a kid that we once got out at the start of July...

[Nemesis]

Okay, so driving to work, listening to the radio (95.9 The Fish) the host started to read this letter sent by a listener and gad dang it started to rain…inside the car.

Enjoy!

He was 50 years old when I was born, and a "Mr. Mom" long before anyone had a name for it. I didn't know why he was home instead of Mom, but I was young and the only one of my friends who had their dad around. I considered myself very lucky.
Dad did so many things for me during my grade-school years. He convinced the school bus driver to pick me up my house instead of the usual bus stop that was six blocks away. He always had my lunch ready for me when I came home - usually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was shaped for the season. My favorite was at Christmas. The sandwiches would be sprinkled with green sugar and cut in the shape of a tree.
As I got a little older and tried to gain my independence, I wanted to move away from those "childish" signs of his love. But he wasn't going to give up. In high school and no longer able to go home for lunch, I began taking my own. Dad would get up a little early and make it for me. I never knew what to expect. The outside of the sack might be covered with his rendering of a mountain scene (it became his trademark) or a heart inscribed with "Dad-n-Angie K.K." in its center. Inside there would be a napkin with that same heart or an "I love you." Many times he would write a joke or a riddle, such as "Why don't they ever call it a momsicle instead of a popsicle?" He always had some silly saying to make me smile and let me know that he loved me.
I used to hide my lunch so no one would see the bag or read the napkin, but that didn't last long. One of my friends saw the napkin one day, grabbed it, and passed it around the lunch room. My face burned with embarrassment. To my astonishment, the next day all my friends were waiting to see the napkin. From the way they acted, I think they all wished they had someone who showed them that kind of love. I was so proud to have him as my father. Throughout the rest of my high school years, I received those napkins, and still have a majority of them.
And still it didn't end. When I left home for college (the last one to leave), I thought the messages would stop. But my friends and I were glad that his gestures continued.
I missed seeing my dad every day after school and so I called him a lot. My phone bills got to be pretty high. It didn't matter what we said; I just wanted to hear his voice. We started a ritual during that first year that stayed with us. After I said goodbye he always said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?" I'd reply.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
I began getting letters almost every Friday. The front-desk staff always knew who the letter were from - the return address said "The Hunk." Many times the envelopes were addressed in crayon, and along with the enclosed letters were usually drawings of our cat and dog, stick figures of him and Mom, and if I had been home the weekend before, of me racing around town with friends and using the house as a pit stop. He also had his mountain scene and the heart-encased inscription, Dad-n-Angie K.K.
The mail was delivered every day right before lunch, so I'd have his letters with me when I went to the cafeteria. I realized it was useless to hide them because my roommate was a high school friend who knew about his napkins. Soon it became a Friday afternoon ritual. I would read the letters, and the drawing and envelope would be passed around.
It was during this time that Dad became stricken with cancer. When the letters didn't come on Friday, I knew that he had been sick and wasn't able to write. He used to get up at 4:00a.m. so he could sit in the quiet house and do his letters. If he missed his Friday delivery, the letters would usually come a day or two later. But they always came. My friends used to call him "Coolest Dad in the Universe." And one day they sent him a card bestowing that title, signed by all of them. I believe he taught all of us about a father's love. I wouldn't be surprised if my friends started sending napkins to their children. He left an impression that would stay with them and inspire them to give their own children their expression of their love.
Throughout my four years of college, the letters and phone calls came at regular intervals. But then the time came when I decided to come home and be with him because he was growing sicker, and I knew that our time together was limited. Those were the hardest days to go through. To watch this man, who always acted so young, age past his years. In the end he didn't recognize who I was and would call me the name of a relative he hadn't seen in many years. Even though I knew it was due to his illness, it still hurt that he couldn't remember my name.
I was alone with him in his hospital room a couple of days before he died. We held hands and watched TV. As I was getting ready to leave, he said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."

[Flashmonkey]

LOL that guy's dad is awesome.