The day my dad died all the dad jokes died with him. Not just his dad jokes, but every joke told by every dad to every child.
The day my dad died the pithy fabric of a delirious world unpicked itself. Buffets everywhere shut down as the seefood diet was all but abandoned. Left-legged amputees wept openly in the town square for they were no longer all-right. Monsters resumed eating clowns, cleaved of their funny taste. No longer seen as a rip-off, Velcro stocks skyrocketed.
The day my dad died I went looking for new dads. I found a herd of men cowering in ACE Hardware. They did not recognise a son-in-need for they were no longer dads. They opened their mouths, but nothing came out. I pleaded with them to save their former children, the children who needed dads now more than ever. I tried my best to stir them. I played them replays of 90s hockey matches. I played them various WWII documentaries. I played them the voice notes my dad left me. I went to the hand tools section and grabbed everything I could. I sent them back out onto the dad-less earth armed and ready.
But still, with all the gear and no idea—like everything that dies—the dad jokes and the dads remained dead, and all that was left were men. These lost men, wandering to the streets, stud finders in hand. Nowhere to point them, no beeping, just silence.
