Sit there on the sofa, in front of the screen.
Baseball, basketball, football, hockey, drag racing — men's business.
Everything at hand: beer, pretzels, sandwiches, potato chips, some slimjims — whatever.

What the guns are for, and the Yosemite Sam scowls.
If there is a disturbance, appear the holes in the ceiling —
Boom! Boom! (two holes).  Boom! Boom! (four holes).
"Shut up out there!  Can't you see I'm watching my game?"
Usually it's enough.  It takes balls.
That's what they're there for.

And if that doesn't work, then threaten:
"Don't make me have to come out there!"
Works every time like a charm.

A man has a right to have his family around him.
He has a right to some peace and quiet.
And he has a right to some respect as well, goddammit!
In return he offers his company, his support and his guidance.
Yes, that's what they're there for.

The home is sacred, is the sanctuary of secure farting,
The cradle of culture, and education in proper respect.
Moreover, what is the business of being a father other than to be
A model of good citizenship for his children, I ask you?

Take my old man, for instance.
The T.V., for instance.
He would talk to the T.V. all the time,
Even talk back to it sometimes.
(How witty and eloquent he was when he wanted to be, God is my witness.)
But he would never, ever throw anything at the T.V.

The responsibilities are weighty.
Only a real man can carry them.
God is my witness, mother knew that too.