Morbid Dad: Death Metal for Dads

Dirty Diaper Dystopia, Horsepower Horror, and More!

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

Have you ever wandered into a venue to witness dad types destroying the stage place with raucous, rancid death metal? Neither have I, but that should change.

Goblins, pirates, dinosaurs, ocean lovers, and party peeps have claimed their own subgenres, and the world deserves a heavy, dad-themed band.

Morbid Dad, a 100% hypothetical death metal group, wears:

  • Gray Old Navy t-shirts
  • Carpenter jeans and/or denim shorts
  • White New Balance shoes
  • Big cell phone clips

Morbid Dad’s lyrics revolve around:

  • Changing diapers
  • Bad jokes
  • Grilling
  • Engines/horsepower
  • Meltdowns at the pizza buffet
  • Mowing
  • Fixing stuff

I’ve written a few songs to prepare you for the inevitable (but probably never happening) debut of MORBID DAD!

Photo by Bastien Jaillot on Unsplash

Dirty Diaper Dystopia

Junior’s laughing, I don’t know why.
Cruel giggles come out of that small fry.
A stench emerges like Cthluhu’s B.O.
I shudder and dread the stink I know.

It’s a dirty diaper dystopia!
An expunged bowel cornucopia!
Worse than non-stop viewings of Zootopia!

Mom’s busy now, and it’s my turn.
The noxious odor grows and burns.
Nostrils sting. The baby waits.
I pretend I’m listening to At The Gates.

It’s a dirty diaper dystopia!
An expunged bowel cornucopia!
Worse than non-stop viewings of Zootopia!

Standing before the changing pad.
My master is this 10-pound lad.
His soiled diaper gives the command.
Will I survive in this fecal land?


Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Horsepower Horror

Cerberus growls, coming down the street.
No, that’s Bob’s Dodge Challenger.
Racing stripes and hand-stitched seats.
The thing pushes 800 horsepower.

Bob’s surely not the same these days.
He doesn’t drink beers or mow the lawn.
His pale blue eyes fill with glowing flames.
He tears up highways from dusk ‘til dawn.

Is it a midlife crisis, regrets from the past?
Did Bob need to get out a little bit more?
What drove him to trade in his hatchback?
Pedal pushes metal, leaving pavement scorched.

He parks his hot rod at the grocery store.
A little old lady backs her Prius out.
She can’t see more than five feet behind her.
She rams the Challenger and turns around.

A red streak runs across the bumper.
Bob can barely move or breathe.
The little old lady is wanted for murder.
She peels out, and away she speeds.

Bob, ever calm, turns in the claim.
The insurance company pays for repairs.
But Bob has a horror waiting for him.
His auto insurance rates will soon be raised.



Photo by Danny Gallegos on Unsplash

Gruesome Grill Ghoul

Who swiped my prized spatula?
Who stole the garlic salt?
Who took my Avengers apron?
If these burgers are burnt, it’s not my fault!

What’s this? Teeth marks on the grates.
But how? The burners won’t light.
Why now? Can’t ruin these steaks.
I bought them at Aldi for a great price.

A gray streak flashes across the yard.
Maybe I’ve guzzled too many brews.
In the lilac bushes, a fire starts.
Arson during a cookout? That’s rude!

I rush to prepare the extinguisher.
I charge the blaze and spray.
A tiny ghoul jumps out, rolls in grass.
Is the propane making me hallucinate?

The ghoul stands and dusts himself off.
He sighs and weeps in regret.
He says, “I’m really really sorry, man.
I’m trying to reach my home planet.”

“I thought your grill would be good for parts.
My ship crashed two houses over.
I politely knocked on their front door
but got chased away by their poodle, Rover.”

“I’m in a bind, man, a dilly of a pickle.
If you could me help, I’d owe you one.
All I need is a grate and a propane tank
to return to my sweet Honey Bun.”

“I have a wife and kids on my home planet.
I’ll be crushed if I don’t see them again.
I’ll pay you back in high fives and space bucks.
Please, oh please! Help me, friend!”

I sprint to the cooler and fetch a beer.
I throw that ghoul the frosty can.
We hoot and drink and fix his ship.
When he takes off, I yell, “You’re the man!”