So the other day I discovered my father’s obituary.
Weird, considering I’d never met the guy before. Do you know what it’s like to learn everything you’ll ever know about your dad through a one-paragraph summary published online in a random newspaper called the Allentown Morning Call, which, pardon my judginess, PROBABLY DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A TRAVEL SECTION?
Let me tell you: It’s hilarious.
Like, laugh out loud funny. Like, split open your pants funny. Like, someone get this God comedian off the stage.
For example, I can now tell you all sorts of wild things I never knew before:
:: Like the fact that my grandfather’s name was Francis. Which–surprise!–was also my father’s middle name, apparently. Good thing I didn’t know that, or my whole life I would have had to admit it to people.
:: Or that my grandmother’s name was Julia, which I can sort of get behind, because at least it doesn’t conjure up images of wrinkly men in wine-colored robes dumping water on strangers’ faces.
:: Yet my favorite fun fact, I’ve decided, is this. I always knew my dad was, according to legend, a Sergeant in the Philadelphia Police Department. He was also on the SWAT team. I mean, why else would my mom bone a guy whose middle name was Francis? The SWAT team is the only reason I even exist. I mean, they even have a SWAT TEAM blog, you guys. But my proudest moment came just now when I found out, via this very illuminating information, that my after he retired, you know what this baller did?
He became the manager of a cemetery. (Is that where my court-ordered $200/month child support came from? Please note I am grateful for the toilet paper and Wheaties.)
Bravo, dawg!
All my life I thought, At least my dad wasn’t a homeless guy. But never in my life did I imagine his career path would take such an exciting turn.
And I have to say: I’m sort of glad I dodged that bullet, too.
EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD: So what’s your dad do for a living?
ME: Hovers over dead people.
Not that I’m above hovering over dead people, of course, but I mean, what does a cemetery manager do, anyway? Rake the leaves? Make sure there are no fifteen year olds making out behind tombstone #397? I’m not sure how you go from SWAT team to cemetery manager, but good work, karma.
Allow me to take a time out to mention I realize I am publicly bullying a dead police Sergeant, who also apparently served in the Vietnam War, which makes him a dead police Sergeant VETERAN. Who I never met. Who was of the Christian faith, according to the author of this fine educational paragraph.
But that’s what you get when you tuck your little police balls in between your legs and throw a peace sign three days before your daughter’s born, never to be heard from again. (So that’s what it means to be a good Christian!) Isn’t this blog post SO MUCH MORE FUN than that silly little paragraph your second wife wrote? Look at the favor I’m doing you. The generosity. All this homage that will forever live on the internet when someone Googles “Brian Francis Morris.” Not that anyone would be Googling your name, but then again, I’ve heard I do have a brother and sister somewhere–who strangely aren’t mentioned in your obituary, so that must not have panned out either?–but if that’s the case, HI GUYS! WHEN’S THE FAMILY REUNION?
By the way, despite how it sounds, I’m not bitter at all, because as luck would have it, I didn’t inherit your morals, I don’t actually work at a cemetery, my middle name’s Elizabeth, and oh yeah, I’M STILL ALIVE.
Jackpot?
But really, I do think it’s hilarious.
Hilarious how sometimes, you take the high road–and sometimes, you turn out to be someone like you, dawg.
Hilarious how sometimes, you never do anything noteworthy–and your obituary mocks you forever for it.
Hilarious how WHO YOU ARE is defined by WHAT YOU DO when things get challenging, or hard, or difficult, or even impossible.
And hilarious that, as it turns out, none of us need fathers. Or mothers. Or the perfect circumstances. Or anything we think we need.
Because every time you should have been there for us?
We were there for ourselves.
Every time we needed your help?
We learned to help ourselves.
And when you do that enough, every single day, you know what you become?
Better than you.
So let us bow our heads in a moment of silence for the esteemed Brian Francis, and then say a prayer:
In the name of the father,
and of the son,
and of the holy spirit?
Joke’s on you, sarg.
P.S. This post is satirical, which means that if you comment and tell me how sorry you are, or how I’ve got all of these unresolved issues, you’re banned from my next birthday party, BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T GET IT AND NOW YOU’RE TRYING TO GET ALL THERAPY-Y ON ME.