Stern DadGreat. Just great. Can you tell me just what I'm supposed to do with this? I'd be ashamed of picking up dog shit in public with this abomination. So, let me get this straight. You took a perfectly useful paper bag, covered it with trash, and expect me to feel anything but horror at this severed clown's head effigy? I can't even use this thing from preventing me from hyperventilating over what an awful, hopeless child you are without getting yarn and glue all over my top lip. As much as I'd hate to keep that thing in our house, you'd best hold onto it, kid. That twisted facsimile of a smile is the closest you'll ever get to having someone show happiness over your existence.
What's this? What is this... I'd call it a "painting," but that would be an insult to some of the greatest artists of our day. You see, when someone with actual talent sits down to paint something, they first sketch out their vision with their mind's eye. But no, you were just too clever for that, weren't you? Always cutting corners. That's why they kicked you off the soccer team when your poor performance forced me to take a swing at the other team's equipment manager. Just look at this mess. Did you even wash your gummy hands before committing this vile poultry to the page? I'd burn it, but that wouldn't be fair to the sky. Let's just bury this. No--wait, sorry. I meant to say, "you bury this." I threw out my back the last time I had to dig a deep enough hole to plant "LEGO daddy."
Oh boy, well isn't this something? Well, you've really done it now! You're a certified genius, champ. Look at what you did: You figured out a way to waste two perfectly usable things at once! I realize you're too dim to understand this but food items are not a decoration. Why didn't you go the whole nine yards and just staple bologna slices to this container that's destined to rot in front of me? And just think of all of the things I could have kept in this box if it wasn't covered with perishable food: divorce papers, my failed plans for your eventual NCAA and NFL football career, and that handgun we took away from your grandmother. Now, all that stuff is just going to be scattered all over my desk. Tell you what: go ahead and have some fun with that handgun when you're home alone. I won't tell your mother.
After a long day at work, there's nothing I like more than a puff on the old pipe. "What's this," I would normally ask, "Clogged? Well not after I use my trusty pipe cleaners!" And what should I find when I open up my pipe cleaner caddy? Nothing! All because you thought making these fuzzy demons was far more important than your daddy's lungs filling with tobacco smoke. Boy, you really thought this project through. You know what my favorite kind of toy is? Why, the kind that pokes me with sharp metal when I hold it the wrong way! What's next, some sort of spidery plaything made out of feces-covered rusty nails you find in an abandoned barn? You're sick in the head, kid. And now daddy has to snort this tobacco up his nose, and you know how much he hates that.
Out of all the trash you've thrown at me, I never thought I'd be given a lie made corporeal. So, help me understand this. You decided to award me "World's Greatest Dad," and without the backing of a committee, and with no formal voting process? Had this been a legitimate award, I'd gladly accept it. We all know how much those clerks at city hall don't like to see daddy whenever he shows up to petition them yet again for a formal "World's Greatest Dad" award complete with a ceremony and statuette. God knows I deserve it for raising you this long. Also, from the looks of this thing, it was likely made from a template--one your entire class probably followed. So, riddle me this: just how many greatest dads can there be, huh? Tell you what: you go stick this award up in the attic, and we'll take it down and frame it once I win that knife fight against your stepdad. When I text him a picture of it while he's recovering from his stab wounds, maybe then he'll see who's "unfit for parenting."
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