In Defense of Dad Jokes

laughingOnce I was preparing dinner with my wife and a friend of ours when the friend asked me to get a tray of ice cubes from the freezer. I opened the freezer and then let out a groan and a melodramatic curse of chagrin.

“What?!” My wife and our friend asked in unison.

“These ice cubes are ruined,” I said.


“They’re frozen solid.”

Our friend smacked me in the chest. “Shut up, Dad!”

She said she felt like she had suddenly been transported back in time to her middle school years, her parents’ kitchen. I thought I was just being funny. She thought that particular kind of funny a) sounded like her dad and b) was, therefore, not funny at all.

I have come to find out her attitude is not unique. I didn’t know it then, but in that moment I was exhibiting a form of humor commonly referred to as “dad humor,” or “dad jokes”. I’m certain my sense of humor predates my becoming a dad, so maybe it’s just guy humor.

Be that as it may, dad jokes fall into different categories, but they apparently all have one thing in common: they are widely regarded as being unfunny to everyone except the dad telling the joke and to other dads. To dads, they are side-splitting.

There’s a category of dad jokes called anti-jokes, for example:

Q: What is brown and sticky?

A: A stick.

Q: What is yellow and fluffy?

A: Yellow fluff

Q: What is blue and smells like red paint?

A: Blue paint

Anti-jokes are straight forward, literal answers to questions that masquerade as the openings to jokes. They should come with a rim shot. I can hear it. Anti-jokes are the Lucy Van Pelt pulling the football away from Charlie Brown again of the joke world: you shouldn’t fall for them, but you do. The anti-joke is funny because it’s not funny and the joke is always on you.

There’s another category of dad jokes that I call the “Lie and Wait”.

Here’s how to pull off a “Lie and Wait” of your own:

  1. With a straight face, tell a ridiculous untruth
  2. Wait for the victim to finally realize the lie
  3. Wait years if you must
  4. Laugh uproariously
  5. Recount the story for many years to come, especially at holiday gatherings

An example: Once, while driving through Wisconsin with our father, my sister saw cows grazing on a hillside.

“How can they stand on the hill without falling over?” She asked.

Dad paused, pondering. He pursed his lips, looked thoughtful. Then he said, “Different legs. Every cow has two long legs on one side, two short legs on the other. As long as they stand with their short legs on the uphill side they can never fall over.”

She bought it.

He let her buy it.

He drove on.

Years later her school friends told her that was not true.

There’s a third category; a catch-all category. Call it “One sigh fits all”. In this category find the puns, the turns of phrase, the I-should-have-seen-that-coming smartass answers.

Wife: Good morning. How did you sleep?

Husband: Mostly on my side.

Q: What’s the difference between beer nuts and deer nuts?

A: Beer nuts are a dollar fifty, deer nuts are under a buck.

Q: What did the rug say to the floor?

A: Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.

Or there’s this classic combination of physical and language humor: when I was little (and even when I wasn’t anymore) my dad reaching over while he was driving and pressing his large, strong hand against my forehead.

“What?” I would ask.

“That sign we just passed. It said stop a head.”

Sigh. Groan. HA HA, Dad.

But I’m not here today to pile derision on top of the derision already piled on dad jokes. I’m here to posit that dad jokes serve a noble purpose that is often overlooked.

It occurs to me that even as I got older and my dad and I found it harder to talk to each other, I would see a Stop Ahead road sign and I would wait for – and welcome – his hand on my head, the stupid pun. I’d dismiss the joke – roll my eyes, groan a cynical HA HA – but inside my heart was filled a little each time he did that.

In those moments, he was literally reaching out to me. When I had no time, patience, interest or confidence for serious conversations with my dad and my resistance to communication made for long silences between us, my dad’s jokes got through. They made me realize he still saw me, they reminded me we were still together, still connected and that he wanted to be connected.

“I’m just trying to get a rise out of you,” my dad would say. You didn’t have to laugh. You just had to wake up and react in some way – eye roll, groan, shaking head, even anger would do. There was a purpose to it (a porpoise to it?).

I think dad jokes are noble because dads know they’re stupid jokes but they tell them anyway, even if they aren’t fully aware of why they tell them. I think dads do it – consciously or unconsciously – to highlight connection, acknowledge presence, reconfirm familial bonds. Convey love.

That’s my experience of dad jokes. What was your dad’s sense of humor like? Was it a positive or a negative in your family? Was your mom funny or was that your dad’s role?


Bodies In Motion — The Final Chapter

Shadow in Lamplight

Photo by msheridan6

Owen did text and call Amy two more times. He wanted to hear directly from her what Debbie Arble-whatever had claimed was the truth. That she had given up on him. That she wanted something from a man that she did not find in him. But she didn’t answer. And a week after Debbie had come to him in the library Owen walked across campus to Amy Wheatman’s dorm on a Saturday night hoping he might see her and talk to her. In the darkness he walked the pathways through the fallen leaves.

At Amy’s dorm room, Owen knocked. No one answered. He knocked again as a girl came out of the room next door. “She’s not there,” the girl said.

“Do you know where she is?” Owen asked.

“Upstairs. There’s a party in Scott’s room. Want me to show you?”

“Yeah,” Owen said.

The girl led the way and Owen followed her to the stairway and up one flight and into the hallway. The lights had been dimmed, music thumped and people spilled out of a room halfway down the hall.

“She’s somewhere in here,” the girl said to Owen and then she ducked into the room and was absorbed by the swirling bodies there.

The noise of music drowned all voices and Owen scanned the room and the hallway. Then he found her.

Amy stood at the end of the hall, her back against the wall looking into the face of a boy who stood in front of her and pinned her shoulders against the wall with his hands. He was leaning toward her, the weight of his body holding her in place. The boy and Amy were talking at the same time, both of their mouths moving angrily. A few of the hallway stragglers were noticing the argument and edging closer as if drawn by the tension between the two.

And then the boy’s hand left Amy’s right shoulder and, in a flash, he slapped her across the face. Amy’s hands flew up and covered her eye against a second strike. But the hallway crowd had seen the boy hit her too and in a wave they broke upon him with a scream and pulled him away from Amy and lifted him and pinned him against the wall and a large hand from the crowd held him around the throat choking him. Others in the crowd pulled at the hand around the boy’s throat until they bent the fingers free and the boy ran from them, down the hallway to the stairwell and out.

Silhouette in lamp light

Photo by msheridan6

A moment passed. Girls in the hallway crowd ministered to Amy, touching her bruised face with their fingers. Owen took a step toward her, and then another and then he was running toward Amy. He pushed into the crowd of girls. He would get to Amy. He would hold her, heal her. But Amy shook free of the girls, she pushed their hands aside and in that moment her eyes met Owen’s and she shook her head. No. She jogged away from him, down the hallway, following the boy.

Owen left after that. He walked out into the night and drifted toward the center of campus; the main square and the fountain. Soft yellow light spilled from lamp posts around the square and a few shadows and silhouettes moved across the bricks. Near one lamp — half in the light, half in darkness — stood a boy and a girl. The boy’s arms hung limp at his sides and he bent his head and rested his forehead on the girl’s shoulder. The girl wrapped her arms around the boy’s shoulders and one hand stroked his hair. Owen could not see their faces. But he did not have to. He knew that the boy was Scott. And he knew the girl. She was Amy Wheatman.