Don’t move a muscle, young man! Yeah, that’s right, you heard me. I can’t tell other people’s kids what to do, but so long as you live under my roof, you’ve got to follow my rules, understood? And I’ll tell you what: I’ll be cold and dead in the ground before I ever—ever—let any flesh and blood of mine be caught at a Pride parade in that disgraceful blue and silver of the Dallas Cowboys. I’m just glad your mother isn’t home to see this.
Listen, son, I love you and I want you to be happy as the person you are deep down inside, no exceptions, but I have standards to keep. When Frank asks if that’s my boy on the top of a float, flailing wildly to Queen’s ‘I Want to Break Free’ in a grotesque mix of NFC East loser hues, I want to be able to look him straight in the eyes and say, “Hell no, because my son has a lick of damn sense and decency: he’s over there on that float, dancing like a goddamn equal rights champion in the beautiful black and gold, thank you very much.”
I know, I know the colors look good on you — that suit and shirt combo you wore to your cousin’s wedding did look pretty sharp, I’ll admit — but, well, I’m an old man, and we’re set in our ways. Maybe you could drape the Pride flag around you and pin a Terrible Towel to it?
Much better. Besides, I suppose this event is all about accepting people for who they are and not what you want them to be, right?
Even Cowboys fans deserve that…I guess.
(Headline by @jjdanek)
