“Dad” is an American institution. An icon. A force of nature. Like thunder, or lightning. Or mold. The less you see of your Dad as a young boy, the better a Dad you have. Because the longer Dad is gone during the day, that’s all the harder he’s working to slay the dragon and bring home the bacon. He disappears between the hours of 5am and 7pm. Then he comes through the door–like an apparition–and takes a seat in his barcalounger. Your Dad sits there and drinks a Pepsi and watches The Game or some other such thing, then goes to bed at a sensible hour, all to do it over again the next day. Then on the weekends, your Dad takes you to Fuddruckers for a burger and to the barber for a haircut. The American institution that is Dad is a guy you kinda know, but not too well. But that’s the way it’s meant to be. Dad Inc. has a lot resting on his shoulders…he can’t be blamed for not having too much patience for your immature bullshit. He’ll threaten to smack you if you get wise with him, but usually doesn’t. That’s ‘Dad’. Dad Incorporated. This is what Dads do.