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Bad Dad Jokes

There are times when life stretches out on top of you like a big thundercloud. Damp, heavy, smothering. There’s an illness in my extended family and we’re all heartbroken. In the midst of this, my brother comes to visit with his wife and kids. This is a good thing. A really good thing.

We go to our favorite restaurant on the shoreline. It’s a roll-up-your-sleeves-and-dip-everything-in-butter kind of place. It’s been here forever, perched next to a river and a bridge, and it’s always busy, even in the full-on dead of winter when the river is frozen on both sides and seagulls crouch around Dumpsters. But you never have to wait long for a seat. They keep up pretty well with the throngs, even in the high season of summer.

Tonight it’s still pre-season, so we get a booth immediately. The air smells of scallops and fries and there’s a light breeze coming in through an open window. It had rained earlier, boatloads of drowning rain. It was the kind of rain that crawls under jacket collars and creeps into sleeves. For now, though, everything is clear. The weather forecast is calling for more rain this evening, but you’d never know it, looking at the sky now. The sun is hanging low and looking a little weak-kneed, but it’s out there.

My niece, nephew, and I are bonding over, of all things, The Walking Dead TV show. The conversation is at breakneck speed, words flying over plates. Who’s your favorite? Why that one? My favorite is this one. What episode did you think was the scariest? I think this one. What would you do in a zombie apocalypse? I would do this. What would you fight zombies with? I’d fight them with this.

The breeze slowly kicks up into more of a gusty wind. I barely notice, choosing to ignore the weather in favor of focusing on zombie talk.

I say how I think it’s funny that the main character, Rick, says his son’s name as Coral rather than Carl in his distinctive, anvil-heavy Southern drawl. My niece shows me memes on her phone of Rick telling what are known as “bad dad jokes.” I tell a really bad dad joke in my best Rick-from-The-Walking-Dead twang.

My nephew, focusing on his food, doesn’t hear it. This one, I swear, has to be the worst.

“Wait, what was that?” my nephew asks as my niece groans and tells me that was terrible.

“Hey Coral!” I answer.

Cue eye roll. “What?” says my nephew.

“How do yew make a tissue dance?”

“Oh God. I don’t know.” My nephew puts his head in one hand and closes his eyes, anticipating the wretched corniness of the answer.

“Put a little boogie in it, Coral! Put a little boogie in it!”

Cue Teenage Look of Death, which my nephew has perfected at three weeks shy of actually turning 13. Then comes an ear-to-ear grin. For now the Teenage Look of Death is purely in jest, if executed perfectly. I don’t look forward to the day when the look is dropped like a live mic and he means it.

We laugh because that joke doesn’t deserve a laugh whatsoever. It doesn’t deserve to be told, much less laughed at. I want to take this table, this restaurant, this evening, and put it under glass. I want to preserve it like people used to preserve flowers under bell jars.

There’s a frenzy of talking and the passing around of food. Who wants some of my fries? I’ll take them! No, I’ll take them! Pass the ketchup. Throw another bad dad joke out. What do you call cheese that isn’t yours? Nacho cheese, Coral! Nacho cheese!

The sky is darkening, swollen clouds rolling in. Nobody realizes it until we have to leave.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.