- Last Updated: 1:06 AM, June 15, 2012
- Posted: 11:27 PM, June 14, 2012
Father’s Day. Since 1910, the third Sunday in June is set aside to honor the keepers of the Y chromosome. Ply the old man with ties, cards, dinners and whatever else you can slap on his credit card.
Parenthood is so blessed that the toy industry’s even considering a pregnant version of Barbie. Plus a new Ken boyfriend doll. Pull a string and it says, “You’re what?!”
Question: With whom will Gotti Junior have dinner? I mean, besides the immediate murderers, drug dealers and loan sharks.
OK so leave us hark back to ancient pre-B.C. The beginnings of the begats. When Methuselah begat Irving or Jehosophat begat Sylvia. Scientifically, medically, all creation had a beginning. Birds do it, bees do it, even uneducated He’s do it.
Azaleas have seeds. Maples have roots. Ants have mommy ants and daddy ants. Butterflies have caterpillars. And Frances Quinn has John Edwards.
Let it be known Emperor Penguins procreate via the male specie, who balances an egg in a pouch on top of his feet. This I don’t think even Charlie Sheen can do. Charlie boasts he slept with 5,000 women. In honor of tomorrow, I have it on reliable authority that his shorts will go condo.
And the true definition of “father”? “A person who can’t get into his own john, onto his own land line or out of his own house.”
Consider the word “father.” It has deep implication. George Washington. The Father of our country. Germany. The Fatherland. We’re taught, Honor thy Father and mother . . . Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do . . . Our Father who art in heaven. How that Octomoomoo’s going to handle it, I’m not sure.
Today it’s test tubes and in-vitro donors. What’s a present you buy your sperminator? A latex glove? A Bunsen burner? You take a petri dish to a ballgame? Take a syringe to class and say, “Meet my dad X233-B?”
In days of yore, a real father was a real factor. In modern times, it’s come-as-you-are. Tomorrow Jodie Foster’s baby will celebrate where? At the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. And Rosie O’Donnell will tell her brood: “Come meet your dad Kelli.”
There’s Daddy Warbucks. Daddy Longlegs. Sugar Daddy. “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” song. Take Sean Combs, who claims he’s so big that he was born on Nov. 4, 5 and 6. Tomorrow how will his kid greet him? With “Howdy doody, P. Diddy daddy?” What’s left for offspring to hand that guy? His own ZIP code?
We got Father Time. Father Christmas, Father image. Fatherhood. Father-in-law. Stepfather. Father to the fact. “The Godfather” movie.
Hemingway was called Papa. Elder President George Herbert Walker Bush was known as Poppy. Haiti’s one-time ruler was Papa Doc Duvalier. “Papa Don’t Preach” got sung by Madonna. “Sesame Street” has Papa Bear. And parish priests in the Greek church answer to “Papa.”
So what special presents should civilization think to give out?
To Brad Pitt: The pair of pants Angelina wears.
To Hugh Hefner: One more bullet.
To Joe Biden: A sandwich sign that says: “Will shut up for food.”
To DSK: A smack in the mouth.
To Silvio Berlusconi: A zipper.
To Anthony Weiner: A digital camera.
To Jamie Dimon: A piggy bank.
To jailed Alan Hevesi: Whatever wine goes with slop.
To Jerry Springer: Six truck stop hookers and a drag queen.
To Woody Allen: A Father of the Year plaque.
As I mull the nice idea of Father’s Day, thoughts of Aunt Cecilia tug at me. The problem is, I never had an Aunt Cecilia. The bigger problem is, paternalistic emotions just don’t simmer inside my psyche.
I actually had two fathers. The one who did the job biologically and the one who did it subsequently.
In my mom’s girlhood every female, yearning to find that one special person to annoy for the rest of her life, prayed: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I want a man who’s not a creep. And as I kneel and lay in bed, I see this jerk you sent me instead.”
For my mom, at first it was: “I’ll never forget meeting this man.” And then: “But I’m trying to.” Early on she realized she didn’t love him. Very early on. Like during the honeymoon. To quote her: “When he was born, his mother must’ve slapped his father.”
After the divorce came happiness. She says it gave her a chance to clean out his cage.
All I know is the Father’s Day presents are cheaper because it’s basically Mother’s Day after taxes. A lone snafu might be the giftee. For instance, a typical Beverly Hills conversation: “My father can lick your father.”. . . “You kidding? Your father is my father.”Follow @PageSix