As most of you know, Sunday was Mother’s Day, and the vast majority of writers love to pen special editions of their columns or segments around each holiday. As a result, the middle of May is always awash with a barrage of maternal lists and segments. This entire concept is pretty annoying. Just think about it: Thanksgiving is the only time we hear about Pilgrims, Christmas music can only be legally played in December, and no one sells slutty nurse costumes when it’s not Halloween. It’s a travesty. Thankfully, for you the reader at home, I’m a rebel. I don’t follow social norms like wearing shoes, tipping pizza delivery men, or not robbing old people. So in keeping with this rapscallion nature, this week I’m writing on the reasons I hate some of your favorite fathers.
I grew up in the early 1990s. You may remember this last decade of the millennium as a time of presidential philandering, Pogs, and postal shootings, but arguably, the most important pop culture contribution was ‘Nick At Nite.’ In case you don’t have cable or replaced television viewing with exercise, I’ll explain the general concept. ‘Nick At Nite’ was an extended block of programming that featured old sitcom favorites from yesteryear like ‘The Brady Bunch’, ‘The Andy Griffith Show’, and ‘Happy Days.’ It was glorious. For about a three year period, I tuned in every night and laughed along with the Fonz and lusted after Marcia Brady, but there was always something off-putting about the entire thing. Eventually, I figured it out.
I hated almost all of the fathers. Sure, they were nice guys, but their lives must have sucked. There was no excitement, joy, or even break from the monotony. They were wounded, wise old sages who existed only to provide trinkets of scholarly advice at the end of each episode. Was I also destined for this tedious reality too? Please, please, no. In a desperate attempt to prove myself wrong, I flipped over to TBS and WGN, trying to find patriarchs who hadn’t been doomed to this horrid existence. Unfortunately, I only ran into ‘Full House’, ‘Boy Meets World’, and ‘Step By Step.’ Ohhhh the horror!
Let’s use ‘Happy Days’ as an example. Howard Cunningham is like a stock character out of ‘Ozzie and Harriet.’ Sure, he owns a hardware store, but basically, he just sits on his chair, reading the newspaper and getting real upset at Fonzie. In at least half of the episodes, his sole job is to tell Richie something is a bad idea. Invariably, Ron Howard will ignore him and end up being hoisted by his own petard. At about the twenty six minute mark, Howard Cunningham will sit him down and forgive him for whatever outlandish stunt he thought was a good idea. What a horrible existence. Twenty years from now, if I’m relegated to sitting in the background and shaking my head at my idiot kids, I’m just going to commit suicide (hopefully by being shot out of a cannon, Hunter S. Thompson style).
On ‘Full House’, the character of Danny Tanner sometimes had a side-plot, but his existence really wasn’t much better. I realize that raising two young girls and a skinny-to-chubby-to-skinny teenager takes up a lot of your time; however, he should have been able to occasionally blow off steam. Where was the episode where Bob Saget got drunk and bet the grocery money on a bull-fight? Why didn’t he ever slip up and call Kimmy out on being a meddlesome bitch? Hell, I shouted it at my TV at least once an episode! Uncle Jesse maintained some of his swagger after he had kids, but that was probably due to Danny watching his children all the time. Damn mooching uncles.
I languished in this state of inevitable, pathetic destiny for a few years. It was a low-key time filled with lots of crying and four-square, but somehow I made it through. Thankfully, things changed rapidly one day when I had an eye-opening and enlightening realization. I met Al Bundy and his surly and vicious family.
The Bundys were a breath of fresh air. They functioned well as a unit, but their unique relationship was a near train-wreck to observe from the outside. In place of hugs and kisses, love had manifested itself into jeering insults and self-esteem crushing glares. This rogue Cleaver family almost seemed like an homage to John Waters and Andy Warhol-esque eccentrics, one last “fuck you” to Norman Rockwell and his brand of hallow, superficial pleasantries. The whole thing was beautiful, like some inbred rainbow of disgruntled curmudgeons and hot, lazy housewives. And Al Bundy was the patriarch.
Was Al’s life really any better than Danny Tanners’ or Howard Cunningham’s? No. In fact, a case could be made that it was worse, but the middle-aged master oozed a realistic and happy vibe. He may have sacrificed some of his dreams, but he still battled the forces of evil and kept anyone from sucking his soul and personality out. Now, that’s a true winner. Besides, Al scored four touchdowns in one game! Blow that out your ass, Randy Moss!
It always upsets me when people term Al Bundy as a bad father. In actuality, he’s more of a real father. He genuinely cares for his family. On numerous occasions, he scolds, threatens, and beats up Kelly’s shady boyfriends, and he constantly helps Bud, in anyway he sees fit. He may wear all of his heartache on the outside, but that’s only natural. Would you really rather have Danny Tanner as your father? Think about it. Every night he saunters over to your bed and lectures you about using a coaster as soothing music hovers overhead. Gross. How does any family have that many touching moments? It can’t be healthy. In fact, that over-parenting is probably why Jodie Sweeten (Stephanie Tanner) turned to Meth.
In the end, you have two different types of televised dads. You have the humble Andy Griffith types and the half-assed Homer Simpson types. The latter group may not be perfect, but I’ll take blunt honesty over fabricated feelings any day of the week. So I salute you, Al Bundy! You are and will always be my North Star, directing me to a lazy, self-indulgent, and fun fatherhood.
