I don’t want anything for Father’s Day.
OK … so that’s a lie.
Of course I want stuff: a pontoon boat named “Gilligan’s Revenge,” a lifetime supply of McRibs, to be 21 again and to see the Rock ‘n’ Roll Express lose a couple hundred pounds, reunite and double drop kick their way to another NWA World Tag Team Title — also for there to still be a NWA. But I’m not going to get any of that. So this Father’s Day, all I’m asking for is to not do what Jellybean wants to do.
I’m a good Dad. I’m an active participant in my child’s life.
And as long as it’s not too dangerous (like dangling out the car window while driving 80 mph down the interstate — not that she didn’t ask), or unsanitary (like giving a homeless man a dollar — not that it wasn’t a kind gesture) or cruel to pets (like shaving Lemmy the Guinea pig — even if he would look like a tiny hippo), Jellybean pretty much gets to watch and listen to whatever she wants.
She controls the remote and I suffer the consequences. I’ve watched every movie in the “High School Musical” franchise, including “Sharpay’s Fabulous Adventure,” so often that I’m emotionally invested in Troy finally hooking up with that Other Chick and whether their burgeoning love will be undone by the ever-scheming Sharpay Evans.
I’ve had “Frozen” anthem “Let It Go” stuck in my head since football season, like every other parent in the Western Hemisphere. It’s to the point where I use the lyrics to answer questions from strangers: “Sir, would you like to super-size this?” asks the kid behind the counter. “Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I’ve tried,” I answer.
“Do you have your CVS card?” asks the pharmacist. “Here I stand, and here I'll stay. Let the storm rage on,” I say.
“Are you aware that you were speeding?” asks the cop. “The cold never bothered me anyway,” I sing.
I sacrifice my mind, and any shred of dude-like dignity, for the enjoyment of my child. But for Father’s Day, I’d like to not do that. I wanna make Jellybean watch my favorite awful movies — “Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park.” Heck, it’s got music and special effects. Paul Stanley shoots a laser beam out of his eyeball. Gene Simmons turns into a robot and smashes his way through an amusement park while breathing fire.
It’s not too much to ask.
“Hannah Montana” is the worst show ever made. But Jellybean loves it, so we watch it.
As a result I often sing the theme song while brushing my teeth or walking to my car — “Chillin’ out, take is slow, ’til we rock out the show” — and this is not something a man in his 40s should be doing. But I use it as a teaching moment. As Jellybean and I were watching the “Wreckin’ Ball” video, I explained that Miley Cyrus was the girl who played Hannah Montana.
“What happened to her?” Jellybean asks.
“Well … when you don’t listen to your parents you might end up swinging from a piece of construction equipment in your underpants.”
And it’s not just TV. I’ve openly participated in the naming of stuffed animals, offering Ronnie James Dio, Ric Flair or David Lee Roth — which Jellybean vetoes for Lily, Bubble Baby or Anda.
But today, I don’t wanna do any of that. I wanna watch the replay of the 2014 Iron Bowl while eating Hooter's 3-Mile Island hot wings, wiping the grease on my Iron Maiden T-shirt and drinking an EyePatch IPA. After all, it's Father's Day ... MY Day, or as I like to call it, Opposite Day.
Is that all too much to ask for?