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Permit me one hokey moment, would you?
While checking out the big, juicy steaks I’ve got in the refrigerator Saturday afternoon, no less than one of which will be sitting in my lower intestine sometime today, I got to thinking about Father’s Day.
Father’s Day has always been kind of an afterthought as holidays go. Few people I know circle their calendars, call up their local caterers and make sure Dad had a day never to forget.
I personally never thought much about it growing up, other than the fact that it was time once again to get Pops a tie, or a Nerf football or some non-potable liquid in a cubic bottle that would make him smell better than usual.
Mother’s Day necessitated a little more effort on my and my siblings’ parts. Breakfast must be made, flowers cut (or at least picked out of an unsuspecting neighbor’s yard), presentable clothes must be put on, and so forth.
As he usually does, the greatest philosopher of our age — Chris Rock — said it best (and I’m paraphrasing…I can’t print exactly what he said here): while mothers have the tougher job, mothers are at least generally appreciated for their efforts.
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