And it came to pass that President’s Day was upon him, and like all President’s Days, it was alarming and unwelcome. For verily, it felt not like a proper holiday, but more like a grievous sore upon his ass. For his two begotten sons and his two begotten daughters were within his house, listless and without purpose, while he still had many labors upon which to toil. Great were his lamentations at the idea that they might spend an entire day pacified in front of movies or video games just so that he might be able to respond to an email or participate in a conference call without the appalling loss of his shit. And yet, few were his alternatives.
And then, by divine will or perhaps infernal machination, inspiration struck. And he didst purchase a foosball table, that he might teach unto his progeny his college pastime. And they didst greet the arrival of the non-electronic game with skepticism, but also good cheer. And they didst “help” him put it together by losing the Allen wrench, and sword-fighting with the poles, and arguing vociferously over which of them would get to use the power drill when in fact none of them ever gets to use the power drill.
And then it was built, and even as he didst pontificate on rules and etiquette, he knew he was competing for their attention with the twin Goliaths of Xbox and iPad. And he saw that he would need to raise his game. And so he didst enliven the bleak, faceless foosball figures with painted initials and jersey numbers. And he didst affix upon them googly eyes. And though he at first forbade the adorning of the “girl ones” with fancy, decorative hats or flowers in their hair, his daughter didst entreat him, and so he forbade it not.
And they played most of the day, and into the night. And he saw that it was good.
