Dad Is Fat

by Jim Gaffigan

By today’s standards, my dad wouldn’t be considered the greatest dad, and I’m sure his dad wouldn’t be considered the greatest dad either. I’m sure my grandfather’s dad would be considered an even worse dad. It probably goes all the way back to cavemen fathers just eating their children. What I’m trying to say is, dads are getting better. Either that or we are all slowly being turned into women. At least that’s what my gynecologist thinks.

Obviously, circumcision began as a religious tradition. I don’t know how they even came up with the idea of circumcision, really. I guess there was a meeting at some point. LEADER: All right, how should we honor God? GUY #1: I say we don’t eat pork. LEADER: I don’t know. I like bacon. Anyone got anything else? GUY #2: What if we cut off part of our penis? LEADER: [Beat.] Okay, no pork. We’ll go with no pork, and I want Guy #2 removed from this building.

Abraham circumcised himself. Wow. I don’t even like clipping my nails. Apparently God told Abraham to do it. I would love to have overheard that conversation. GOD: Abraham! ABRAHAM: Oh, hey, God. GOD: I need you to do something for me. ABRAHAM: Well, sure. You’re God! Whatever you want. GOD: I need you to circumcise yourself. ABRAHAM: [Beat.] I think we have a bad connection here. You’re breaking up. Can you send me an e-mail?

Someone should really start an online service for playdate matchups. Parents could take a personality test to see if they are compatible with other kids’ parents before letting their kids become friends with kids with boring parents. It would narrow down the list of potential playdate partners’ parents and help you avoid the inevitable walk of shame home from a horrible playdate. I would totally sign up for that service. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you start that business? You could call it “Playdates.com” or “ePlaydates.com.” You could make a killing! You’re welcome. Again. Don’t tell me you don’t have time. You’re just sitting around reading this brilliant book.

A good friend of ours has three cats in her studio apartment and asked me, “Can you tell that I have cats?” I replied, “No, but I can tell you have a box of turds in your living room.”

Given that I come from “Six kids, Catholic,” I shouldn’t be surprised when people assume my large family is for religious reasons. I’m Catholic. Everyone knows Mormons, Catholics, and Orthodox Jews have large families. So it is for religious reasons, right? I’ve found that’s not how it works. If anything, you have four or five kids and THEN you become religious. Believe me, once you lose a kid in a New York City park, atheist or not, you start talking to God right away. “Hey, God, I know I haven’t talked to you in a while … probably since that last pregnancy test. I guess it’s kind of ironic, me reaching out, having lost that same kid. Anyway, if you can help me find my son, I promise I will never do anything bad again. I won’t even eat at Wendy’s— oh, wait. There he is. Never mind, God. Well, we’re off to Wendy’s. Talk to you when I get cancer.”

Disney is a perfect example of one of those things you do just for your children. There is no possible benefit an adult can take away from the Disney experience except feeling like a superdad in your children’s eyes. Now there are adults without children who go to Disney, and they are called weirdos. Very nice people. Absolutely crazy. Even the nerdiest of nerds at Comic-Con think those people are nut jobs. “Hey, I may be wearing a Batman suit, but you’re waiting in line for an autograph from Aladdin? Get some perspective, dude!” I know that sounds mean, but when you are trying to entertain your kids while you wait for two hours in the boiling heat because there are four fifty-year-olds in line in front of you for Peter Pan, you’d be a little irritated, too.