At Wits' End

A stream of hot tears showered the linoleum floor, washing away a layer of grime at Robert Dey’s feet. His socks and sandals were damp, and his oversized Hawaiian shirt billowed as he convulsed, hunched over, in the old steel chair. Another half dozen mustard yellow padded seats formed a semi-circle around Robert, occupied by the sympathetic faces of other middle-aged men.

Sobbing and an oscillating fan were the only sounds to echo off the exposed beams of the church basement. The air was humid, like stepping off a plane in a tropical destination, but the room was dim. It reeked of burnt coffee and the musk of old Bibles.

The meeting facilitator, a well-groomed man in a three-piece suit, broke the silence. “Sharing your story for the first time is always the hardest. Why don’t you start again.”

Robert lifted his head, revealing the face of a defeated man. Anxiety and stress had chiseled deep lines into his forehead. The dark circles underneath his hallow gaze were visible scars from a battle fought with an invisible demon.

“Hi, my name is Robert.”

“Hello, Robert.” The group said in unison, their voices welcoming.

“I just recently accepted that I have a problem,” he said, then fought back more tears. “It started with just one or two a day. It was fun at first, even my kids seemed to enjoy this side of me. But as the years went on, I just couldn’t control myself, it escalated to five or six a day. I’d pick my daughters' up from middle school and they’d be so embarrassed by my behavior. Now my entire family hates me. My wife isn’t attracted to me anymore.” Robert paused to make eye contact with every member of his audience. Then, with a sheepish look, he continued, “It doesn’t matter that I made six figures last year; I was still the worst employee at the toy factory.”

An audible gasp escaped the mouths of other participants. The facilitator raised his arms in a calming gesture and softly said, “Mr. Dey, this is a Dad Joke Support Group, let’s try to refrain from using that type of language.”

“I’m so weak,” Robert replied. “Just call me Tuesday, because I’m a weekday.”

The facilitator leaned over and put his hand on Robert’s shoulder, his voice gentle but firm. “I know it can feel overwhelming at the beginning of this journey, but we’re here to help you, Mr. Dey. You’ve already taken the first step, and with a little hard work and dedication, we’ll eliminate every last dad joke from your vocabulary.”

******

Nine Months Later

Robert shifted his position in the stiff leather chair, his smile unaffected by the numbness in his butt. The natural light pouring through the office window complimented his glowing skin and seemed to dance off the silk fabric of his suit.

A man sat across the large wooden desk, shuffling a stack of papers. “Your resume is very impressive Mr. Dey,” he said. “However, I see you haven’t worked in quite some time. May I ask why?”

Robert glanced at the nameplate on the desk, then sat up straight and spoke with confidence. “Lance, I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I went through a bit of a rough patch. I suffered from an addiction but got some help and went into recovery. Now I’m thriving and loving life.”

“That’s great to hear,” Lance said. “You know, I used to be addicted to the hokey pokey, but I turned myself around.” He chuckled to himself.

Robert returned a smile, but the harmless dad joke penetrated his defenses and burrowed into his brain. A trace amount of dopamine was released into his system, causing Robert’s body to tense up with a primal hunger.

“Now before we start the interview,” Lance continued “Let me tell you about our state-of-the-art Velcro Manufacturing Plant. It’s a very fast-paced environment. First things first, are you able to perform under pressure?”

Robert froze. His eyes, previously beaming with hope, now twitched with turmoil as old cravings bubbled to the surface. “You can’t ask me that,” he said.

Lance's face contorted with a mix of irritation and puzzlement. “I don’t understand. It’s a very simple question, Mr. Dey. Can you perform under pressure?”

Robert's face turned red, and he vibrated like a steam whistle ready to let loose. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple and all ten fingers were sunk into the leather upholstery to steady himself.

Lance now spoke deliberately, his words measured. “If you fail to answer the question, I’ll be forced to end this interview. Can you perform under pressure?”

“NO,” Lance screamed. “I can’t perform Under Pressure, but I know all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Lance narrowed his eyes and blinked slowly as he tried to process the answer. His lips parted as if to form a follow-up question, but he hesitated and collapsed into his chair.

“QUEEN,” Robert continued. “It’s a dad joke about the band Queen. I’m also addicted to collecting Beatles records, I need Help!”

Lance gathered the papers on his desk, shoved them into a folder, and cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re the right fit for Velcro,” he said, then motioned towards the door. “Have a nice day.”

“I don’t care about stupid Velcro,” Robert cried. “Your company is one giant rip-off.”

“Please leave, Mr. Dey, or I’ll call security,” Lance said, then he put his hand on the desk phone.

Robert stormed to the office door and swung it open forcefully, causing books to tumble off shelves. He paused in the doorway and slowly turned around, then spoke gently. “You know, Lance isn’t a common name for guys anymore. But in medieval times, they were called Lance-A-Lot.”

******

Epilogue

Robert never overcame his addiction to dad jokes. Instead, he accepted and embraced his curse by turning to social media. He created a popular TikTok character, a Frenchman wearing only a beach towel and sandals named Phillipe Flop. His short video clips of terrible and awkward dad jokes gained a large following. Phillipe Flop eventually became a popular children's program on Netflix and his live stadium tour generated millions of dollars in revenue.