First Impressions - Column

Most of us know the old story of Isaac and Abraham.
God asks Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah, so he takes him up there, binds him to an altar and is just about to kill him when an angel swoops in and stops him.
The point of it was a test of loyalty to God, sure, yet it always left me with one unanswered question.
Why was there was no celestial intervention when my own folks subjected me to the next worst thing - the parent joke.
Because make no mistake; the parent joke is by far the most devastating weapon in the parental arsenal and I've still got no idea why Supernanny Jo Frost hasn't yet endorsed it for neutralising unruly sprogs.
Mum used to delight in dropping unsolicited P-bombs on my two brothers and I at once, leaving the three of us shell-shocked and cringing in agony and disgust.
Her most feared parent joke could only be detonated when prompted by the question "How long's tea gonna be Mum?" Too often we were caught out when our rumbling stomachs blinded our judgment and it was only after we'd spoken those cursed six words that we realised the horrible invitation we'd given her.
Mum would turn around from peeling the spuds, with that goofy grin spread wide across her coupon, and let us have it.
"Uhhhh ... about 30 centimetres," came the revolting cheese.
"Awww, Mum!" we could only reply when we were but poor defenceless kids.
In later years though, one of us always blocked her before she could repeat the crime.
"Right, how long's tea gonna be Mum - and don't you dare bloody say it!"
The unleashing of parent jokes - too often used to ensnare sons and daughters who innocently ask the wrong question - should be universally outlawed by the United Nations, with hefty sentences handed down at The Hague to parents who wantonly wield puns of mass destruction.
But sadly, it seems the parent joke is just too deeply ingrained within Western society, where the most respected of denizens can still be found guilty of the practice.
Historian and Wairarapa walking authority Gareth Winter, for example, used to take grim delight in breaking out his favourite parent joke when dinner-time conversations in the kitchen arrived at the topic of bean salad.
"I don't care what it's bean ... I just wanna know what it is!"
Ugh.
I've now found the ritual of the parent joke is just as rife among Tauranga's corridors of power, with even Mayor Stuart Crosby and Chamber of Commerce chief executive Max Mason numbering themselves among this cult of corn.
"In my family we call them 'bad Dad jokes' because I'm normally the culprit," Max confesses.
"They normally revolve around bad puns. Sometimes when my 15-year-old son's mates visit I try to be cool, and it normally ends with an eye-rolling cringe situation. One of them might say 'I feel like an ice cream', and I counter with 'Well you don't look like one'. Funny when you are 1 - not so much when you are 15. I guess I need to move on."
That, and the barrage of bad parent jokes offered by newsroom colleagues, left me with the impression that Tauranga might just be a parent joke hotbed.
One sadistic staffer even had a nasty little PJ handy to torment his kids with each time they visited the Mount Maunganui Hot Salt Water Pools: "I hope it doesn't rain while we are in the pools or we'll get wet."
Another lamented her Dad's wicked response to the old "where's the remote" question that we've all asked our folks so many times: "I'm not remote-ly interested." Shudder.
For those Mums and Dads who reckon they haven't got enough ammunition, look no further than the repository that is www.dadsbadjokes.com (I'm pretty sure Max Mason had nothing to do with this).
This sinister website offers all manner of horrific parent jokes, to use in the car ('Boy it must be cold out there, those cows are Friesian'), in the house ('Dad, I'm hungry' .. 'Hi Hungry, I'm Dad') and plenty of the aforementioned spring-loaded P-bombs ('What's on the TV Dad?' 'Just some dust'.")
But the worst?
Son: I'm thirsty. Dad: Hi, I'm Friday!
Just kill me now.