Dear fathers. On the patriarchy (at least in cartoons) the “soft daddies” have won

At this point in our evolution we can say with reasonable certainty that all fathers are able to leave the house at night to buy pads for their daughters (or for the wife, therefore also for the secret girlfriend). They’re not only able, they’ve learned to pronounce the word sanitary pads and not sweat for the word menstruation, and they do it willingly. They know that it is part of their duties as a “soft daddy”, but more generally as a modern father, therefore not decrepit, therefore not excluded from the changing world. You are all capable of going to the night time pharmacy or drugstore, even with a little pride because the cashier or pharmacist will understand that you are dealing with women and that you are kind, they will smile at you in agreement and trust you. But you haven’t passed the test yet: only the real soft daddy, in fact, the soft and modern father, is capable of not making the wrong model. He recognizes the right sanitary pads by their color, by the shade of purple, he knows when it’s time to buy thinner ones, he understands when night ones are needed instead, he even knows the pros and cons of the menstrual cup. The others, I’m sorry to say but that’s the way it is, have stuck to the wings, an invention of thirty years ago that no longer provides any conversational skills. The soft daddy is up-to-date, involved, totally involved in family life, in which there are no women’s affairs. He also bought a vertical steam iron of which he is very proud: everyone runs to him to get their clothes ironed before the party. And he irons them. He clears away, but this is obvious and is the minimum if he doesn’t want to be expelled from the civil assembly and go back to the caves, he goes to interviews with the teachers, he is cheerfully sad in school chats, he speaks fluently about hair removal. There’s nothing that embarrasses him, not even accompanying his daughter to choose a bra. Homer Simpson is simply a retard to him. Not a bearish model to laugh at with secret solidarity, and even more secret envy towards the lazy troglodyte male slouched on the couch watching games with a beer in hand and goldfish swimming in his brain, drunkenly arguing, snoring even when awake, he strangles his son Bart, he is annoyed with his daughter because she is too intelligent for him that he basically does not understand what he is talking about or even in what language.