Stan Birch ‘22
Staff Editor
So uh, *clears throat, adjusts belt* you kids wanna hear about Dad Klüb? That place was like a graveyard. People were dying to get in![1]
As soon as you walked in and were greeted by many of hosts a fist-bump was rejected because “it’s a handshake kinda party.” The first glimpse of the party was exactly what a Dad would hope for: It was outdoors and sufficiently cold, there was smoke pouring out of the grill, two tables of games with lots of spectators adding their two-cents, twin kegs bathed in ice just in case the freezing temperature wasn’t enough, a playlist any Dad (country, oldies, classic rock, Cali, Dead-Head, etc.) could begrudgingly head-bob to, and plenty of casual shirts tucked into casual pants held up with belts. While general trends of apparel could be agreed upon by all old-man-minded in attendance, a Western-American trend in fatherly fits emerged as a decisive point of contention: Birkenstocks and socks. I don’t know about that. Most in attendance gave some attempt to fit the theme, but there were a few that dressed like it was any other day of the week. I wasn’t mad—just disappointed.
Pictured: The only acceptable grilling attire for any aspiring dad. Photo Courtesy imgur.com
From a distance any father-figure could spot that whoever took the first round at the grill burned anything that went on. There must not have been enough people standing around him, reminding him “don’t turn the meat too often; you gotta keep in the juices.” In the middle of laughter over some classic Dad jokes, one young lady paused and pensively posed a very serious question: “Wait, aren’t some of these people … ACTUALLY Dads?” The next ten seconds was filled with very intent searching for the true Dads among us, but none were apparent.[2]
As the deck got overly-crowded to the point where pong became a contact sport, a few daring Dads sought to compete in the game of their college days: Spikeball. One armchair expert commented that while softball was great and all, “if Spikeball was this school’s game, I’d be a legend.” The game had its momentary attraction until players realized that meant moving a lot, outdoors, in the cold, without any kind of jacket on.
As the sun went down and the temperature dropped further, outdoor beer pong stopped being a game of patriarch vs. patriarch, but became a game of man vs. cold-ass Mother Nature. People moved inside to take advantage of the fire. Greeted by Bruce Springsteen on vinyl, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW IT’S MEANT TO BE HEARD, the indoor vibe was much warmer. Too warm. Someone had to be messing with the thermostat. Plenty of people attempted to coax a fire to life in the fireplace. Like anyone on the true path of the Padre, even when they had no idea what they were doing, they insisted this has worked every other of the one time they watched some guy at some place make a fire. Eventually a fire was sustained, and the colder-blooded and short-clad parentals found refuge huddled in close, like when you find the two other families you don’t hate at the PTA meeting.
Just as it felt like the party was starting to wind down and I wondered if peak-paternal had been achieved, everything kicked back off with the one thing all Dads say they don’t want and then will murder their first child to protect: a golden retriever. The goodest boy, named Kypo, was the most excited and well-mannered guest in attendance. 12/10.[3] As I wandered past the grill, the title of the Four Tops’ classic playing described exactly how I felt smelling what was cooking, “I Can’t Help Myself.” As grill-master Brian passed along a perfectly cooked bratwurst, I knew the night was complete. It was getting past my bedtime, so I called my ride and climbed in. Apparently, I had been standing by the fire for too long, because my Uber rolled down the windows and asked me if I was smoking in the car. I have no idea how late those other Dads planned on staying out, but I managed to make it home just as I was ready to hit the sack, at 7:45 p.m.
I, the author, would like to apologize to all who have read this far if any of my Dad jokes didn’t land; it may be because I don’t have any kids. I’m a faux pa.
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sfb9yu@virginia.edu
[1] If you’re already cringing at a bad pun, I suggest you enjoy one of the many other articles contained in this edition of the Law Weekly. If you’re still with me, buckle up.
[2] Do you get it? It’s because “apparent” sounds like “a parent.” Go on, sound it out.
[3] https://twitter.com/dog_rates