I No Longer Care How You Met My Mother

Seriously, Dad, give it a rest.

I wouldn’t say I was ever particularly interested in how you met my mother in the first place. But if it was a quick, funny little story I guess it would be good to know. Maybe I could tell my kids one day, or get a crappy college essay out of it or something. But this is ridiculous. Do you realize you’ve been telling my sister and me how you met mom for 7 GODDAMN YEARS?! Seven years, Dad! In that time we’ve had two Presidents, three Kardashian weddings, and like eight Middle East revolutions, and yet somehow, you’re still going. I’m really starting to hate you, Dad. Like, in a way that’s going to be hard to change.

There’s some things I think you’re missing about the art of storytelling. First of all, the audience has to want to hear the story. On that fateful morning seven years ago, Sarah and I were just sitting around, discussing whether a muffin is more breakfast or dessert, and then all of a sudden you were on top of us. “You gotta hear this great story!”, you interrupted. We ignored you, so you tried “come on, how about a little quality time with your ol’ Dad?”, and then, when we didn’t bite, you said “I’ve been feeling kinda lonely, kids. You still love me, right?” Kinda manipulative, Dad. And then, finally, you just started the story. Without us ever saying “yes.” Or “OK.” Or nodding even. That is not a good approach to storytelling. Also, stories are supposed to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Yours had no real beginning to speak of, TONS of middle, and absolutely no end in sight. That sucks. It hurts me to say this, but you suck.

Here’s another thing, Dad. A lot of this stuff you’re telling us is totally inappropriate. Like, last week, Sarah and I had to listen to a story about you and your three friends going to a strip club. We don’t want to hear that, Dad. It’s totally gross. And the bit where your friend Barney tried to put a dollar bill in your mouth so a woman could “suck it up in her”… breasts or vagina, or whatever you were implying – that was just sick. It’s chauvinistic, disrespectful, and honestly, totally unsanitary. Get a grip, Dad! OH, AND ALSO, what the hell did that have to do with how you met our mother?! Nothing. Like every other anecdote we’ve endured over the last almost-decade – nothing. So why bring it up in the first place?

That brings me to my final point. Your friend Barney – not that funny. I know he makes jokes a lot – like almost uncomfortably a lot – but he’s really not as clever as you think he is. Yeah, I get it, he’s really into women, and kinda arrogant, but also sort of a buffoon. I’ve seen it before, Dad, and I liked it better when he was called Jack Tripper. Also, Barney gives off kind of a gay vibe. Just thought you should know.

So in closing, let me just say this: I think it’s possible for me to still love you, Dad, I really do. But this has got to stop. I want you to get Mom into this narrative as fast as humanly possible, and just meet her. It doesn’t have to be funny, or clever, or even interesting. Just have her walk into whatever room you’re in, shake her hand, and say “hello”, so we can all get on with the rest of our lives. I have things I want to do, Dad. Like meet my own wife. And go to the bathroom. Sarah and I have been talking, Dad, and if you don’t tell us how you met our mother today, we’re gonna have to put you in a home. I’m sorry. We see no other way out.