Dad Jokes
What did one plate say to another plate? ... Tonight, dinner’s on me.
Few things signal a man’s graduation into fatherhood quite like his ability to stifle a conversation with a well-worn Dad Joke.
There’s little science available to back up my thinking here (and don’t worry I checked) but it all boils down to frequency and quality.
When you’re firing off cheap jokes more than 75-80% of the time, then you’re way down the hole of fatherhood.
Recently, I’ve noticed an uptick in my use of Dad Jokes and it has me a little concerned. Not that I’m against Dad Jokes, I love a good barn burner as much as the next father. But I’ve always thought my cringey, overly sarcastic snipes were balanced with grade-A wit.
These days though, I’m growing concerned that I rely too heavily on the Dad Joke. It’s fast becoming the appetizer, entree, and even the dessert in my 3-courses of humor.
Worse still, I’m wondering if I ever possessed that golden wit in the first place and it’s all causing a bit of an identity crisis.
Take the events that unfolded the other weekend as an example.
I was texting back and forth with a few pals while sipping a cold lager in the back courtyard on a sunny Sunday in Philadephia.
One of said pals, Mikey, was living his best life in Aruba. Or the Bahamas. I can’t remember exactly where he was but there was a beach, clear blue water, lots of sun, many drinks, and smiles so wide and vibrant they could only come from the tropics.
The three-way chat was alive with banter of the best kind, mixed in with some photos from Mikey to let us know that at least one of us was livin’.
One of those photos showed two recently-caught fish.
“What are they, Mikey?” Mirza asked.
Now I need to point out that I was pretty toasty at this point in the afternoon.
It was warm, I’d just finished a few hours gardening (peak Dad, I know) and so I was laying back indulging in a few vibe sweeteners, i.e. Frosty Nelsons, i.e. Crispy Lagers, to celebrate a good weekend.
Needless to say, I was feeling myself. And when Mirza throws up a lay-up like that in a text thread I started buzzing with the thought of a snarky reply that I presumed would light up the chat with laughter.
My memory’s fuzzy but I think I even licked my lips at the opportunity in front of me.
I cracked my knuckles on both hands and set about typing my sarcastic reply.
This will be golden, I thought, as my thumbs threaded the words together on the screen.
An absolute cracker.
They’ll be in stitches.
On the floor, gasping for air.
Holding their rib cages in fits of uncontrollable laughter.
I hit send on my message: “Those are fish, Mirza.”
HAHA! I leaned back, rested my head against the seat back, and took a long sip of my lager—a Red Stripe, I believe it was.
I waited for the joke to hit, taking solace in the fact that my wit was unmatched in that moment.
I waited and I waited. And waited some more…
But it never landed.
In fact, it flopped like a thirsty house plant.
Mirza replied a whole 25 minutes later. He was not the least bit impressed.
“Not your best work, Al.” He said.
Brutal.
Mikey didn’t even acknowledge the joke, choosing only to answer Mirza’s original question.
“Tuna and snapper,” he said bluntly.
The harsh reality of the moment tore through my hubris and I saw my joke in the pale light of day.
What was my best work, I wondered?
That started me on a thought train where I wondered if my wit was fading, depleting as I grew into Fatherhood. Maybe I was too sarcastic, too reliant on the lowest form of humor to get my laughs.
At random moments over the next week, I’d revisit this thought and think about the wise-cracking jokes I make.
Are they all sarcastic? Are they all Dad Jokes? Is that a bad thing? What if people only laugh out of politeness and I’m not really even that funny?
These overly-dramatic thoughts whistled around my head like parrots at a bird bath.
I thought about the jokes I make with my darling wife and how she often rolls her eyes in response.
Good lord, she can see it too. I’ve lost it, man! My sarcastic quips have brought me to my knees!
After a whole week of this ghastly inner monologue, I decided I needed to clear my head so I went to the gym for a workout.
I came back feeling rejuvenated, alive, and free of the weight of a man losing his identity to Dad Jokes.
When I returned home, I went upstairs to shower and get changed.
Maala was running up and down the hallway yelling the Frozen theme song and Mel was getting ready for Jiu-Jitsu.
I walked past her in my sweaty workout clothes and threw my bag on the ground.
“How was your workout?” She asked over Maala’s high-pitched crescendo of Let It Go.
I turned around to face her but before I could reply she answered her own question.
“Did you… work it out?”
Oh good, it’s not just me then.