With Father’s Day quickly sneaking up on us, we ladies are left asking ourselves the same question we ask ourselves every single year- WHAT in the world do I get the man who fathered my children? I used to give my Dad ties. Every year, Ties. That poor man. The father of my OWN children deserves something special that does not start with a T and end with an IE, am I right?
One night, as I was looking at my magnificent stretchmarks thanks to growing a weird pink human in my gut, it came to me, and I wrote my husband a letter. You are more than welcome to use it for yours; I’m sure he will be SO appreciative once he realizes you have already gotten him the BEST GIFT EVER.
Here is my lovely letter:
I’m sorry i’m not going out of my way to be overly romantic. I didn’t get you a card or buy you a tie or some stupid fucking tool set for the simple fact that you have a penis, or electronics we don’t need and can’t afford. I’m sorry I didn’t plan some gigantic grand gesture to prove my gigantic amount of love and appreciation for being the man who impregnated me, or post some overly sappy status update on facebook about how much I love you and that you are just “OMG THE BEST FATHER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD! ME AND MY CHILDREN ARE SOOOO LUCKY!”
I just…. No.
It’s not that I care about the over conglomorizing of yet another holiday, or the implication that you should be bought a gift simply for being the father of a child. Celebrating is awesome. Gifts are pretty kick ass, too. It’s not that i’m hateful toward it because I have Daddy issues (I love my Daddy!) and I won’t go on and on about how “every day should be a day to show love and appreciation for fathers, not just one!”- no… I simply don’t give a single fuck about any of that. Not even the tiniest one.
Here’s the deal:
I figure what I’ve given you in the past should count for… ohh.. I’d say forever. (yes, that’s bold AND italicized; it’s that serious)
That’s right. I stretched myself to oblivion, got covered in permanent purple marks, gained 40 lbs, stumbled upon random patches of fantastic cellulite scattered about my thighs, and blew out my vagina just to bring your spawn into this world. TWICE. All while you sat on the sidelines, still able to drink and have fun and eat whatever the fuck you wanted without worrying about looking like a whale, or having your ass explode, or pissing off the baby taking up residency in your abdomen. You also got to keep your sanity, were able to sleep on your stomach (or sleep at all), hold your bladder for longer than 24 minutes at a time, and have a total of ZERO hands shoved into your private orifices. I had well over 18 months of all of that.
Fathers get it easy! You get to have a holiday aaaalll for you when you didn’t have to blow out your crotch. You got to do the diddly and BAM, baby reward! Gifts and adoration for life! I saw my vagina turned into something that resembled an Arby’s roast beef sandwich. I love you, I plan to spend the foreseeable future with you, but you can’t compete.
All of that combined should keep me covered for life when it comes to gift giving. As stupidly fucking cheesy as it is to use the cliche’d “children are the best gift you can give”– it’s working for me right now. And I’m running with it!
Tell me, what could EVER top your very own living, breathing, miniature human?
And tread lightly, dear, for if you say a big screen TV or something equally asinine is better than my crotch fruit- an otherwise uneventful Father’s Day will end with you being smothered under a newly embroidered pillow. I may not know how to sew, but don’t test me!
P.s.- I guess your DNA is pretty awesome. Don’t let it go to your head though. And Happy Father’s Day…. I guess
P.P.S – Dinner’s on me! Not that that’s unusual… but let’s just pretend it’s special and be done with it!
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Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
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