dad

My mom, dad, grandparents, we all do voices.

I always wanted what Mom and Dad had.

My dad is not a sports guy but was drawn to the theatrics of wrestling.

My Dad is my hero.

Without my dad, I wouldn't be here.

Emma stared at the ceiling of the hotel room. Her thoughts went over every memorial, each picture, the families and children left behind. At this point it was a nightly routine. Some people counted sheep. Emma counted her father__ victims. One by one.

He was supposed to be the first man to tell her that she was beautiful and help her determine who she was before anyone had the opportunity to label her. She was supposed to be his __ittle girl_.

At this moment, I know that the answer has to be yes. I am defeated. By my own father. How Darth Vader.

She loved him, even though it was so hard to love anybody else after loving my dad. I think I knew this before she did.

Wearing that? Wouldn't you fancy a shapeless cardigan instead? You rock a shapeless cardigan, honey.

Be more than a father, be a dad. Be more than a figure, be an example.

I walked out of his room sure I'd said the right thing maybe not as a father but as a Dad. I'd said the right thing, for once in my life.

(Don Fey had a large rubber stamp that said "bullshit," which was and is awesome.)

Your father doesn't fucking play games. you would never come home with a shamrock tattoo in that house.

... family men, Claude.""Then why aren't they home with their families?""You haven't been listening to me, Claude. It takes lots of honey to raise a family these days..." No, it isn't even that, these teddy bears don't like honey as much as they think they do. They think they're supposed to like it, the way they're supposed to like women and children. They think they're supposed to act like real grizzlies, but they don't feel it. You can't blame them, they just don't have it inside them. What they have, what they love most, is their memories: how the Coach used to shout niceworkpal whenever they caught the big ball or somehow hit the little one, how Dad used to wink when they caught one of his jokes, how when they repeated them he almost died laughing, so they told them and told them - if they told one really well he might do it. They memorized all the conversations verbatim, that about the pussies and the coons, the homers and the balls, the cams and the bearings. They're still memorizing. You can see them almost anytime you're out driving, there in the slow car just ahead, the young man at the wheel, the old man talking, the young man leaning a little to the right in order to hear better, the old man pointing out the properties, the young man looking and listening earnestly, straining to catch the old man's last word, the last joke verbatim, the last bit of know-how about the deals and the properties and the honey. When he thinks he's learned all he can from the old man, he'll shove him out of the car. You watch, next time you're out driving. "...these are the cream, Claude." These are the all-American fairies.

Before you and your spouse can work as a team raising your children, you must first work as a team in your marriage.

My father looked as if I__ just gutted him, and I felt a pang of regret__ut it was mingled with a twisted sense of satisfaction. It felt good to hurt his feelings__t was payback for the way his choices had irrevocably damaged my own.

My dad was always snoozing on the couch, like Dagwood Bumstead. He was a lazy motherfucker. God bless him. He was always working on some kind of get-rich-quick scheme. This is what my dad was like: I'd say, Hey, Dad, we studied penguins today in school. He'd say, Yeah? I'm a penguin fucker from way back. Dad, I saw a giraffe at the zoo today. Yeah? I'm a giraffe fucker from way back. That's my dad. My dad was a giraffe fucker.