Eulogy for the Waste of a Man Who Called Himself “Dad”


Let’s not sugarcoat this. He’s dead. And with him dies the last excuse he had for avoiding responsibility.


 This wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t even a mediocre one. He was a black hole of effort, a parasite with a driver’s license and a knack for vanishing whenever someone needed him. His most consistent trait was absence — emotionally, physically, financially, morally. The man dodged accountability like it owed him money.


 You know what’s wild? You could’ve told us he died ten years ago and we wouldn’t have known the difference. Because that’s how long it’s been since he gave a single ounce of a damn about anyone but himself. He was a father in the biological sense — and even then, barely. A sperm donor in a leather jacket, trying to coast through life on charm that dried up decades ago.


He didn’t raise kids. He created them and disappeared — like a virus.


And now, after a life of doing nothing but damage, he’s finally done something we can actually work with: die. That’s the only useful thing he left behind — a corpse. No wisdom, no inheritance, no apology. Just ashes in a box that cost more than he ever spent on our birthdays and Christmases combined.


 And those ashes? Good thing we didn't want them. We wouldn't keep them. We wouldn't honor them. We’re not pretending this was some tragic loss. We’d flush them — right down the toilet — where they belong. Right back to the sewers, where things like him crawl out from.


We're not here to pretend he was complex, or wounded, or “just doing his best.” His best was abandonment. His legacy is silence. And now, finally, so is he.


 This isn’t mourning. This is liberation.


 Goodbye forever — and don’t haunt us. You were never around when you were alive, don’t start now.


 Flush.

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