No Chicken Tenders for My Son
for We Are Hardened Men
P
ut that kiddie menu down, boy. Come on, this is our son-and-pop day. (No moms here.) Order yourself something off the big menu. It’s my treat. I even brought you a pack of cigarettes. Have a smoke, it’ll do you good, make your voice sound like mine. Women enjoy cigarettes, son, therefore you enjoy cigarettes. Because you're a man, and that's how we operate. Come on. I said put that menu DOWN. Next time, I’m taking you to Bugaboo Creek. I know that talking buffalo gives you the heebie-jeebies. Don’t make me do it. I'll tell the wait staff it's your birthday, and they'll force the buffalo to attempt a song, and goddamn it son I don't want to have to do that again. Now tell the nice waitress what you want to eat. I already got you a Dr. Pepper with your onion rings, because the bartender wouldn’t let me order you a shot of Jack. So what’ll it be: veal, steak, or elk? (Will my boy pick veal? Does he know it is the cruelest of the meats?) …chicken tenders? You want chicken tenders? (He better be yanking my leg, trying to eat tenderly in front of me.) You want to eat chicken tenders in front of your father? What kind of man do you think I am? Tell me. I need to know. Am I strong? (Am I?) Do you think I wear this leather jacket for nothing? It’s 84 degrees out and I’m sweating bullets. It's bordering on extremely unhealthy, but do you think I give a good goddamn? I mean, do you even know what a man like myself does with those bullets, buddy? Take em' right to the firing range! Hell yeah! Gimme five! Go on. Slap my hand, son. Here, feel how rough they are. It’s from hard labor. Does it feel like I wince all day? I do. Don’t try and talk to me about tenderness, son: we are HARDENED MEN. I remember when I was your age; I didn’t
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want to eat meat either. It was the 70’s, and all of my friends were eating Tofurky and lentils and each other’s asses. It’s tempting. But I don’t want you getting B-12 deficient and sallow like they did. I eat meat, and my arteries are clean as whistle(Shit, did I forget my Lipitor?). Look at me, I can even do jumping jacks! Listen here, Valleyforge. I didn’t name you after the greatest battle in American history for nothing. You’re strong, maybe even as strong as me. Feel my biceps. No, that’s not fat, that’s pure muscle, buddy. That's what happens when some of the muscles get tired and weird from holding the bigger ones in place. I could probably lift this table way over my head. Obviously I won’t, not now – this isn't Bugaboo Creek. But I could do it. You came out of your mother’s gorgeous vagina for a reason, Valleyforge. And do you know what that reason was? To make your papa proud. You know how you make your beefy papa proud? By owning a Ferrari, and by not ordering chicken tenders. You have so many juicy, delicious options: you’ve got your bovine, your ovine, you’ve even got your cervine -- look at that venison chili! Today, boy o' mine, we order real food. Miss Waitress, you sexy lil’ thing, the men are ready to order! I’ll have the prime rib, medium RAW, still mooin’. (I’m so sorry, Miss, I know you’re just doing your job. He just...he has to learn. He has to learn to survive in this world. He will eat red meat, and he will drive a Hog or a Stang, and he will eventually own a moving company. This is the life he deserves!) And my strong, alpha son here will have the prime rib, also breathing, hold the juice on the side. No, I don’t mean au jus, I mean STEAK JUICE! (But…I’m a classically trained pastry chef. I speak French fluently! Who have I become?) Yes, waitress, I know my son is crying now because he wants chicken tenders.
By Brenna Lilly
But my son is not weak, and he needs to learn how to eat like a man. Don’t pick up his napkin, he can do that himself, but for the love of God, remove the line on the menu that refers to your tenders as "teeth's favorite meat!" Don't you see the mess you're causing? Son -- forget the napkin. If we get messy, then so be it. In fact, don't ever let me ever see you use those soft, nimble hands for anything but driving a Ferrari, cutting through a thing that was born and then probably died, and wooing women. (My heart grows further beset by pangs of conflicting regret...alas, he would be such a marvelous piano player). Waitress, what’s your name again? Princess Tits? Caitlin? Caitlin, can you kindly disappear for a few minutes? Now son, look me in the eyes. I need you to do this for me. I need you to be better than me. Taller than me. This is what my father before me told me: you gotta fake it till you make it. You hear me? Fake it till you make it. Even if they catch you tearing up at A Bug’s Life, eating tofu, or beating off to porn (A Bug’s Life is porn, right?) you have to act like you’re the biggest guy on the block. Even bigger than your neighbor with the nice hair and expensive sports car of an ambiguous make and model. Here, wipe off your chin. I’m only telling you this because I think you have potential. My papa never believed I had potential in me to be a good man, but I think that you have it in you. One day I’ll buy you a tiny motorcycle, and we will ride off into the sunset together, just us. That sounds good to you, doesn't it? (I'll need a license Where’s the nearest DMV? And he’ll need a helmet!) (My strong and safe son.) Where’s Caitlin at? Can’t she see my manly twenty-year-old son and I have steaks to eat? Valleyforge, wait, don’t leave! Let me at least give Caitlin my number! (God I need to nut).