We are born and begin to flex.
Before we possess the requisite gross motor or language skills to facilitate the flex ourselves, our parents do it for us. They dress us up in the cutest, least practical alphets. They brag to other parents about whatever stupid thing we did once by accident to one-up whatever stupid thing their kid once did by accident. This would later be the basis of Facebook Dot Com, which revolutionized the reach with which people could brag about the stupid things their kids did once by accident.
As you become a Cool Teen™, you take ownership of your flex. You choose the music you listen to. You choose the shoes you buy. You choose the ladies you will criminally pester until they feel sorry for you and give you an HJ behind the bowling alley during spirit week. As the great philosopher Olmec once opined, "The choices are yours, and yours alone!" It's all about staying on top of every microtrend.
Unfortunately, as you age, the amount of free time you are left with to keep up with your non-revenue-creating passions dwindles exponentially. I remember hearing something about half-lifes in chemistry class when I was in high school, but that day I was too busy leering at a cute girl's nice butt because she was wearing those jeans with no back pockets. And it's like, "Wow, I'm very thankful for that jean style because it does not mar the glory of the lady butt. Also, why were back pockets ever invented? They were probably invented by a dude that didn't appreciate a tasty lady haunch, you know?" I vaguely remember what a half-life is, but I think it works as an analogy here. If it doesn't, might I suggest Googling "nice lady butts" instead of leaving some insufferable fuccboi comment correcting me. The nerds that edit these Four Pins pieces will probably plop a swagless "[Editor's Note: A half-life is the amount of time something has before it becomes more swagless]" clarification anyways. [Actual Editor's Note: Bauce is right. A half-life is the amount of time required for a quantity to fall to half its value as measured at the beginning of the time period.]
I come from a line of audiophiles and home theater enthusiasts. One uncle designs sound systems for mega churches and another owned his own custom car audio business. My dad has tube amplifiers that cost more than my car. I worked at Best Buy for three years in college before becoming CEDIA-certified and designing lighting control and entire home control systems. "I'm going to know everything about consumer electronics for all eternity!" I remember thinking to myself. After a job and industry change five years ago, I don't even know what the fuck 4K TVs are.
When I worked at Best Buy, a motif I noticed, but didn't become meaningful until I was 10 years removed from the situation, was that there were always 40-50-year-old married guys who would come in looking for new audio receivers. They didn't need new speakers to go with it, just the receiver. But why? Because the receiver they bought in college 20 years prior had died on them. They still had their very expensive B&O or Klipsch loudspeakers, they just needed a new receiver. I found it odd, but then I got married and had a kid. My money no longer went to things I liked, but to things I was obligated to: bills, diapers, HOA fees, etc. I understood now why all their possessions, the things that were truly theirs, dated back to before marriage.
Though it may seem like your life is over after getting married and having a kid, it isn't. You just have to embrace your new station in life. Once you realize that your days of flexing are not numbered it's like being born again. I can no longer try to be hip. I can no longer attempt to be youthful without looking pathetic (shouts to all the 30-year-olds rocking Affliction shirts, I admire your commitment). I can't go buy every new consumer electronic and flaunt it. I'm no longer an early adopter. I'm a whenever-I-get-around-to-it adopter. I've accepted that. And I've become better for it.
I'm not obsolete.
I still matter.
I still flex.
However, now I flex via actions instead of things.
If you are on The Pins, then flexing on fuccbois is your hobby. Fortunately, it can be a lifelong pursuit if you adapt.
I went to Disney World last month with my wife, my 2-year-old daughter, my mom, my sister, my niece, my nephew, my sister's fiance and his daughter. If that sounds like a terrible idea, you are correct. Why go? Well, my sister, who didn't get an English degree (like me) and has a lot of money (unlike me), said she'd pay for my family to go. How could I not?
The modern stereotype of The Dad irks me. The cheap joke on any sitcom or movie is to frame The Dad as an unaware dingus who can't do anything right. I rebuke this characterization as it is wildly outdated. My dad never changed one of my diapers while I've changed a thousand diapers and accidentally had more poop get on me at any given time than a Bang Bros. Ass Parade actor. My goal when I went to Disney World aka The Place That Nightmares Have Nightmares About was to be the most elite dad that place had ever seen...
While we are on the shuttle bus, I'm wearing the diaper bag/backpack and standing with the folded up City Elite® Stroller by Baby Jogger. And, in some cases, doing all this while holding my 30 pound daughter and fighting back cramps. I'm asking if my daughter needs a pouch (to non-dads, a "pouch" is, like, an applesauce Capri Sun), or her Minnie Mouse ears or if my wife needs a water (of which I have 8 carefully packed into one of the 5 backpack compartments). The goal is to bear the brunt of the stress and make my wife's life easier. If you were to survey the bus, all the other dads would be completely oblivious and on their phones. I could feel their wives eye-fucking me, banking the memory of a Strong Dad™ being so goddamned proactive to masturbate to later. I could smell the mature pussy self-lubricating. "I bet he puts the dishes in the dishwasher without even having to be asked."
I'm on fucking fire when we get into the park. I'm making sure everyone has water. I've got the FastPasses queued up because I stayed up for 5 hours the night prior planning out everything, even snagging the highly coveted FastPasses to meet Anna and Elsa. (Real Dads know what I'm talking about. All you Single Dudes who are confused just know this is basically like a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket.) I've memorized the map. I'm checking wait times. I know where all the bathrooms are. I've tapped into The Matrix. All the other dads are just sitting on the sideline admiring me. When my daughter cries because she is scared to death of a Disney Character that we just waited 30 minutes to see because she said she wanted to meet them, I don't get agitated. I console her and ask if she wants to go on the Teacup ride for the 20th time that day. Meanwhile, a dad not 10 feet away is yelling at his kid about dropping his ice cream bar.
"Wow, how is he so perfect?" a stranger mom blurts a little too loudly within earshot.
"The things I'd do to him if he was my husband," a nearby MILF says, perhaps accidentally, out loud.
"I wish I was him," a shameful bystander dad utters.
I'm really the swaglord of this Disney shit. And it has nothing to do with my alphet or any possession. I'm wearing a FUBU backpack, Levi's and a Croft & Barrow golf polo, but I'm still flexing. Let's call it age-appropriate stunting. It was a highlight of my life—better than the time I got my first blowjob and my whole body started to tingle, better than the time my boy hooked me up with a free Chick-Fil-A breakfast, better than the time I got the ill corporate health insurance and copped some generics for free. In that moment, I had engaged and initiated Cool Dad™ Mode. I had applied Moonstone. I had evolved.
When my daughter decided she wanted to play in the water fountain/splash park area and asked me to play with her, I went along. I was wearing white shorts and all the while getting soaked. My dingaling print looked like a hand shovel protruding out of a sandbox. I didn't care. I was having fun because my daughter was having fun. All the other dads were sitting literally and figuratively sitting on the bench while their kids ran around sad because that was the exact moment they realized their dad was a pathetic lame.
If you are on The Pins, then flexing on fuccbois is your hobby. Fortunately, it can be a lifelong pursuit if you adapt. We can't be Cool Teens™ forever. Our swag eventually goes through puberty and we become Cool Manchildren™. With proper reflection, and a little luck, we can all die on top of a pile of our own shit in an assisted living facility as Cool Geriatrics™ draped in the most fire robes. The un-flexed life is one not worth living. Godspeed, my babies.
Justin Roberson is the coolest Cool Dad™. Ask him to be your father on Twitter here.
