Dad, it’s your day of celebration and self-reflection, but before I give you the customary shitty tie followed by a scotch on the rocks before high noon, there are some things I need to get off my chest.
First and foremost, thanks for the meat hammer. It’s the byproduct of good genes and a minor mishap on that pullout couch in Acapulco that added to your legacy. A legacy of shitting with the door open, eating beef jerky, and shamelessly throwing one-liners at waitresses working at the local wing joint.
I may not have noticed it back when, but I now see your thought process on having my first taste of alcohol be the shittiest whiskey on that side of the Mississippi. I wanted nothing to do with that sinful firewater because of you until I realized I’m a goddamn smooth criminal on the hooch, thanks to your one-liners at Hooters. I’ll give you that one, you slick bastard.
Thanks for not allowing me to play soccer or rollerblade past 8-years-old. I don’t think I could live with myself knowing I could've been a rollerblading foot fairy for the rest of my life. To be exact, thanks for pulling me out of soccer practice to sign me up to beat the shit out of other top heavy, bobble-headed midgets whose dads had the same agenda when it came to football.
By now, you’ve probably already received your annual handy shandy and are passing time however you can until football returns in September so you have a legitimate excuse to sit on the couch all day whilst getting shit canned. So enjoy the day and continue to not give a damn while looking like a hoss in the process.
Keep on keepin' on, Pops