Recently, I watched comedian Tracy Morgan on Seth Meyers’ show bitching about Mother’s Day. Not bitching, but definitely complaining that Father’s Day doesn’t get equal play.
Sidebar: As of late, with mild to medium attention-span issues that are sprinkled with unsystematic brain functioning and doused in portobello mushroom clouds of What The Fuck Just Happened to My Life, I’ve relegated my TV choices to network talk shows because my brain can’t consume all that streaming horseshit you guys brag about. A note to this sidebar, Meyers’ show blows. (Scorch.)
So Morgan, whose delivery I dig and boisterousness I tolerate, got his Bugatti in a bunch when asked about the day.
“Mother’s Day. Anybody know what Father’s Day is? No. Last year, I had to cook breakfast for myself in bed.”
Well, last year on Mother’s Day, I did three loads of laundry and two loads of dishes as I drafted my relationship’s pink slip. (I left soon after, but that’s not the point.) The point, Mr. Morgan, is that yes, fathers are a great presence and unique presents in a child’s life, but the mother pushed the little beasts into the world. You impregnated your wife, then your job was over for 10 months while you picked up a free designated driver and a deepened alcohol addiction.
Remember that for the better part of a year, Morgan, your wifey housed the kid as it expanded between her hips, knocked around her ribs and smashed her bladder (much like master sommeliers when they’re playing Slap the Bag). Then she pushed out the equivalent of three two-liter bottles of soda (for further visuals, see: a large watermelon, a holiday ham, a Thanksgiving turkey, a sack of potatoes, a bowling ball, a dachshund or a bag of sugar) out of a hole that often rejects a tampon. (It’s true.)
Then, after likely getting her flesh ripped and sewn back up, wifey proceeds to spend months to years sustaining this living creature on her nectar as the child sucks her jugs raw.
But in the end, dear Tracy, your point is moot. Moot, I say! Father’s Day is the same thing as Mother’s Day, except you get a free ticket to drink beer all day. Just like yesterday. And tomorrow. And Monday through Sunday.
Mother’s Day may have more flowers and cards, or brunch and mimosas, but Father’s Day has a “get out of jail free” card. And I’d rather have that present. So stop talking before my uterus bitchslaps you.
(My bitter bite will dissipate with time. Thanks for bearing with me, folks.)