Roast jokes for dad.

Frank has invested more in his Weber than some people spend on cars. He treats the grill like a Michelin-star kitchen, consulting articles on pellet density and thermometer calibration while his family waits indoors for burgers. The man once recalibrated his grill's temperature dial because it was off by three degrees. His wife suggested he bring the same level of attention to remembering their anniversary. Frank just stared at the grill.

Donald retired and somehow became busier than when he was working. The man has rebuilt the driveway, painted the house twice, and reorganized his garage by a system only he understands. His wife asked him to just relax. Donald looked genuinely confused, like she'd suggested he take up underwater basket weaving. He is currently on phase three of his 'minor basement renovation,' which began in 2019.

Robert's garage is an archaeological site of his intentions. He has nuts and bolts sorted by size, wood scraps organized by thickness, and mysterious metal parts in labeled boxes that nobody remembers the purpose of. His wife has suggested a yard sale. Robert clutched his toolbox and whispered that she didn't understand. Half of those things are probably valuable. Or useful. Or something.

Tom inherited his father's recliner and has spent fifteen years wearing a permanent groove into it. He can operate all four functions without looking. His family knows not to disturb him during football season because his recliner time is sacred. His wife finally got him a new one for his birthday. He acknowledged it politely and returned to the original. Some bonds cannot be broken.

Phil takes fishing with a level of seriousness usually reserved for brain surgery. His tackle box is a work of art that he reorganizes seasonally. He has named his favorite rod. He keeps detailed fishing journals. His family has learned not to ask when he's coming back because the answer depends on 'what the water is doing.' Once he stayed out an extra three hours because the walleye were apparently 'having a moment.'

David's response to any household emergency is a firm declaration that he can handle it himself. A pipe bursts, he'll fix it. The roof leaks, he knows just what to do. An electrician calls it 'a fire hazard waiting to happen,' but David has strong opinions about contractor pricing. His wife has learned to pre-emptively call the actual professionals and tell them there's an old man who may try to stop them. They always look sympathetic.

Vincent approached fatherhood with a spreadsheet. He has color-coded sleep schedules, feeding charts, and developmental milestone checklists. His actual baby operates on no schedule whatsoever and has clearly not read any of the books he has. Vincent shows up to work looking like he's survived a minor war. His colleagues gently suggest that the baby doesn't actually care about optimal sleep cycles. Vincent looks at them pityingly. They clearly don't understand the science.

Brandon believes fishing trips should start at four in the morning because that's when the fish are apparently most cooperative. He has called his fishing partners at three-thirty in the morning to confirm they're awake. He once arrived at someone's house at three forty-five without calling first. Nobody has the heart to tell him that fishing is less effective at that hour and more about his personal enthusiasm. He genuinely loves this hobby. Everyone else just loves sleep.

Oscar has maintained the same body weight within three pounds for thirty years, which is admirable until one realizes it means he's wearing clothes that are actively falling apart. His wife suggested updating his wardrobe. Oscar looked at his ancient sweatshirt like it was a treasured heirloom. That shirt has sentimental value. The fact that it has holes is just adding character. He plans to wear it until it achieves complete transparency.

Leo's retirement plan apparently includes stockpiling enough paper products to supply a small municipality. He calculates price per unit with the intensity of an economist. His garage now holds quantities of items his household will never actually use. His wife asked why they have seventeen bottles of olive oil. Leo responded that the per-unit cost was compelling. They already have olive oil. This logic does not compute for him.

Gordon's entire personality has become golf. He discusses golf scores like they're personal achievements, analyzes his swing with the focus of a physicist, and keeps meticulous records of every round. His friends have learned to simply nod and let him talk. He once spent an entire dinner explaining why his seventh hole performance was off. Nobody asked. Everyone regrets not changing the subject earlier. Golf is his passion. Everyone else is hostage.

Peter has established himself as the only person authorized to operate the television remote. It's not technically a rule, but everyone understands it. He knows where everything is, how to get there, and exactly which button order yields the desired result. Others attempting to change the channel is treated like a minor insurrection. His family eventually gave up and simply requests what they want to watch. Peter evaluates the request and decides if it's worthy. Democracy is dead in his living room.

Jasper wears the same hoodie from university approximately four days a week. It's faded, it's frayed, and it smells like history. His wife has attempted to wash it so many times she's given up. Jasper simply reappears with it anyway. He claims it's broken in and perfect. His daughter suggested he might want a new one. Jasper looked personally wounded. That sweatshirt is his, and it's not going anywhere. Comfort is not the issue. Loyalty is.