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From One Father to Another, Please Spare My Life

Hey, I'm a table, and I have feelings.

By a plastic table during March Madness

I know March Madness is exciting, but you know what else is exciting? April. And I want to live to see it. So when your team wins, do me a favor. Don’t crash all 250 pounds of your human meat into my varnished plastic top. Maybe, like, be chill for once.

Seeing the way you treat plastic tables like me during March makes me blow my top. Or, rather, it makes my top implode under the force of your left butt cheek. 

You and me, we’re both dads. Your baby plays point guard for Villanova, and my little girl facilitates tea parties between three-year-olds and their stuffed animals. I come to you, a father, to ask which is more important: you celebrating your son’s big win or me being able to scooch my little girl down the Ikea aisle one day? Who will teach her to stay away from poker tables if I'm in shards?

Should you be able to fly through the air with joy, screaming “NOVA NATION NOVA NATION!” if it means I might never see my baby being driven around in a delivery truck for the first time? And to think that I was worried about her not wearing her bubble wrap. 

Within the table community, we have all lost friends to the dreaded month of March. Even my brother Teak wasn't strong enough to bear the weight of Uncle Jim's alcohol-fueled post-Elite Eight swan dive, and he's the strongest among us. You should have seen him handle that 30-person Passover seder. What a champ. 

So this March, be considerate. Remain calm. Save a life. And please, for the love of God, use a fucking coaster.

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