I have decided to stop watching television sitcoms. There seems to be a common theme running through each of them that just doesn’t sit well with me. The writers of these sitcoms must all drink the same brand of creative formula, because whenever they spit something up, it pretty much all looks and smells the same. I can envision the initial brainstorming session by a typical writing team trying to come up with the basic premise for a new sitcom.

Writer #1: “Okay, here’s what I’ve got so far. It’s a family. 90% of the show will take place in their living room. And the father of the family is a chowder-head.”

Stop right there! That last sentence. That’s what bothers me about sitcoms. The fathers in these sitcoms have the I.Q. of a shoelace. They make Neanderthals sound articulate. They may wear the pants in the family, but they’re either on backwards or falling down.

Here is a series of scenes in a typical sitcom:

INTERIOR – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
Dad is sitting on a sofa watching the ballgame. His young teenage daughter skips into the room and sits down next to him. She smiles innocently.

Daughter: Hi, daddy. I have a school assignment where I’m supposed to take $100 to the mall and see if I can buy a really hot outfit that makes me look like I’m 21 and sexually active, even though I’m only 15.

Dad: Let me guess…Economics Class?

Daughter: Ah…Yes.

Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He unfolds it, pulls out a wad of cash, and hands it to his daughter. Daughter gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

Daughter: Thank you, daddy.

Daughter gets up and rushes towards the front door.

Dad: Wait. Come back here.

Daughter walks dejectedly back towards her dad. She holds out the wad of cash expecting her dad to take it back. He adds another $20 to the pile.

Dad: Buy yourself some dinner. And bring me home one of those gooey cinnamon rolls…with extra frosting.

There is a knock at the door. Daughter hugs her dad.

Daughter: You’re the best.

She runs to the front door and opens it. It is her boyfriend. He looks like he’s in his early twenties. He also looks like he just got out of bed. Daughter leaps into his arms and gives him a messy kiss. Boyfriend suddenly sees her dad.

Boyfriend: Oh, Hey Mr. M.

Dad: Hey Mr. L…oser. What are you doing here?

Boyfriend: Me and….

Daughter (Interrupts): He’s just dropping me off at the mall, daddy.

Dad: Good. Remember-no dating my daughter until you get a job.

Boyfriend: Hey, I almost had a job but they wanted me to start before noon.

Daughter drags boyfriend out the door.

Daughter: Bye, daddy.

Dad: Bye, pumpkin.

Dad refocuses his attention on the game and mutters his frustration with the score. His 11-year-old son meanders into the living room and sits down next to his dad.

Son: Hi, dad. Can I ask you a question?

Dad: Sure, son. What can your old pal do for you?

Son: There’s this girl….

Dad pats his son’s leg.

Dad: Say no more. Your old man was quite the Casanova before your mother got her hooks into me.

Son: What’s a Casanova?

Dad: A ladies’ man. If you’re looking for advice? Dr. Love is in the office.

Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He unfolds it, pulls out another wad of cash, and hands it to his son.

Dad: Take her to dinner and a movie. A horror movie.

Chicks get real clingy during a horror movie. About halfway through the movie stretch out your arms like this.
Dad demonstrates the move by stretching his arms out.
Dad: Then lower your arms with this one over her shoulder like this.

Dad lowers his arm around his son’s shoulder. Son looks awkwardly uncomfortable.

Dad: Now she’s going to send you a signal, so you have to have your radar up. Pay attention because this is where romance is won or lost. As you can see, your hand-well, it’s really my hand for demonstration purposes-can go two different directions. Either on her shoulder, or if you’re getting a strong signal, on her….

Dad is about to place his hand on his son’s pec when Mom enters the living room.

Mom: Cute couple.

LATER, KITCHEN
Mom is chopping vegetables for a salad. Son shuffles in.

Mom: Do I want to know what that was all about?

Son: He was about to grab my moob.

Mom: What’s a moob? Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.

Son: Hey, there’s this girl at school that keeps trying to copy my answers whenever there’s a math test. What should I do?

Mom: Obviously not what your father suggested.

LATER, LIVING ROOM
Dad is still glued to the big screen. He is shoveling handfuls of popcorn in his face. Mom walks in wearing a robe.

Mom: How’s the game?

Dad: Down by 12.

Dad grimaces.

Dad: Make that 14.

Mom: Your team may not be scoring, but you could be.

Mom opens up her robe, revealing a sexy nightie. Dad glances at her, then the game.

Dad: Here’s what will happen. I’ll go upstairs with you, and find out tomorrow morning that my team came back and hit the winning shot at the buzzer. I can’t take that chance. I got a Jackson riding on this game. Besides, I can score with you later.

Mom closes her robe, grabs a nearby blanket, and tosses it towards dad.

Mom: Going to be tough to score when you’re sleeping on the bench.

Now this may make entertaining television, which I suppose is the intended goal of a sitcom. But I get frustrated watching these actors misrepresent the real fathers and husbands out there. If I were the father in the above sitcom, there would be a few minor rewrites:

I wouldn’t even attempt to grab one of my son’s moobs. However, I would tell him how proud I was that he was doing well enough in math that someone would actually consider copying his answers.

My 15-year-old daughter will still think that “Cooties” is a deadly disease that can only be transmitted by non-imaginary boys.

Any guy getting within the same zip code of my daughter will meet my size 13 boot. It’s better for him if he’s running away from me at the time as opposed to facing me. But my boot has no preference.

Regarding watching the game or scoring with my wife, why should I have to choose? Like most guys not living in a sitcom, I can multitask.

***
Check out L. Dustin Twede’s website at www.ldustintwede.com. He can be reached at ddtwede@yahoo.com.