OnlyStans.com

> wakes up in the morning
> chugs Gatorade for breakfast
> mulls over my debilitating daddy issues
> opens laptop
> types in search bar:

> ah finally. OnlyStans.com
> my favourite site to watch dads on VR
> *CLICK* enter
> simulation begins in
> 3
> 2
> 1
…

Oh hey, kiddo, didn’t see ya there! It’s me, your dad, Stan.

What’s wrong? Feeling blue? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Haha. Cat got your tongue? Haha.

How ‘bout we toss that old baseball around and talk about girls, man to man. Back when the sky was blue and the grass was green, my pop used to say, “Son, if I know one thing in life, it’s that there’s nothing a tough, manly throwing of balls can’t fix.” And boy, was he right.

Now, I know you think you’re better than your old man. Heck, I wanted you to become the next Wayne Gretsky and now you’re out here playing Ultimate Frisbee, a diminished and infantile form of Discus, for the University of Toronto Varsity team. Your sport isn’t even recognized by the International Olympic Committee, you fucking cuck.
Image courtesy of Alamy Stock Photo

But I care about you, son. Even though we’re different, I know what is best for you. Look at us, we’re throwing balls around right now! That’s how you know I care. I will never tell you that I love you, so you’re just gonna have to make do with what you have.

I have just one golden rule when it comes to raising a teenage boy such as yourself:

mAN. THE FUCK. UP.

You gotta appreciate the little things in life, y’know? Kiss a girl. Catch a Dylan song, or meet up with your Hell’s Angels buddies once in a while.

BURy your EMOTIONS DEEP INSIDE.

Grill, for god’s sake. Eat raw, red meat. Men cannot be vegetarian. It’s physically and biologically impossible.

SCREAM INSIDE YOUR HEART.

Live in the present. Settle down in the suburbs, find a former Miss Teenage America contestant who burned out at the age of 16 and treats Happy Hour like it’s a paid therapy session for a wife.

Oh, you’re depressed? Well,

Suck it UP

NO son of mine is allowed to seek therapy, even though we have the means to pay for Drake’s psychiatrist’s hourly wage plus her month-to-month living stipends.

I am a Corporate Lawyer and our family is in the upper income bracket, but I will by no means fund a stupid activity like therapy. Stocks, on the other hand…

Alrighty.

That’s all I have to say, son. Good talk. Glad you still take the time to listen to your old man once in a while, ‘cause he knows a thing or two.

I’ve scheduled our next father-to-son chat for February 2030. Until then, live by my advice, kiddo. Catch you on the flip side.

> *CLICK*
> end of simulation
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