(HUMOR) One untrained reporter’s quest to uncover the mystery that is … Dadbod

Editor’s note: The following story is part of Xpress’ annual Humor Issue. This a satirical piece that is not meant to be taken seriously. Happy New Year. 

Walk down any street in Asheville, and you’re likely to see the phrase “Dadbod” emblazoned in spray paint on a dumpster, lamppost or any particularly slow-moving dog. I would wager that Dadbod has a tag in nearly every nook and cranny of this city.

But who is Dadbod? Bold artist? Body-positive advocate? Creative visionary? Middle-aged father of three?

I figured it was time I put my untrained, investigative journalism prowess to use in solving this mystery. And the answers I found were darker and infinitely more complicated than I could have ever dreamed.

So follow along with me, dear reader, as I recount, in my best Robert Stack impersonation (which you cannot hear), the previously unsolvable mystery and reveal once and for all the identity of the infamous Dadbod.

Whence Bod came

To learn who Dadbod truly is, I figured I’d need to go back to the beginning and locate the very first Dadbod tag. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I would have to pull out every stop and draw on all of my journalism skills. Unlike most of the so-called “experts” around here, I didn’t go to a fancy reporter school. My classroom was the streets, and I studied under the greatest teacher of all: human experience. (I also went to A-B Tech, but that associate in arts didn’t really apply here.)

Drawing on my street smarts, I knew I wouldn’t find my answers in some dusty old library. I would need to talk to the people. Unfortunately, I do not enjoy talking to people, so I went for my next most trustworthy source: Google. I must admit, the results I got were shocking — too shocking to share here. I soon realized that if I wanted answers, I would need to narrow my search to “Dadbod Asheville” instead of just “Dadbod.” (I also realized that it probably wouldn’t hurt to turn SafeSearch back on.)

The oldest mention I could find of Dadbod appeared in a Reddit post from April 2022. (Granted, it’s possible there are older posts I missed; there simply was no time for me to dig deeper!)

I needed answers from the people who posted in the thread, and I needed them now. Unfortunately, there was an insurmountable barrier here. I didn’t have a Reddit account. It was a dead end. I wouldn’t find my answers here, but at least I had a year to work with: 2022.

Was Dadbod the lashing-out of human creativity against the isolation we all felt after surviving the lockdown and COVID? Or was Dadbod the joyous acceptance of the aging process and the human body as it approaches middle age? Or was it something else altogether? Something that eluded me?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. At least not yet. But I had the when (mostly). Now, I needed the who.

For whom the Bod tolls

When I called the Register of Deeds and said I was looking for Dadbod, they laughed and hung up. Clearly, the powers that be knew I was getting too close to the truth, and now they were stonewalling me. It was time to go through unofficial channels.

My first instinct was to reach out via text to the myriad of text chains I’m in. As a rule, I try to remain humble, so when I tell you I’m in more than five very active text threads, I do not mean for that to come across as bragging. (But it is impressive, right?)

In each of these threads, I inquired:  “Who is Dadbod?” Most of the responses ranged from animated gifs of Shrek to “David who?” (The “David who?” response made more sense once I realized autocorrect had changed Dadbod to David.) In all instances, my efforts seemed futile.

I only had one option left: my friend Paul. Paul has lived here forever and seemingly knows everyone. I called him with panic and urgency in my voice. At the time, I was unaware that he was celebrating his daughter’s birthday. On account of my desperation — I was hyperventilating and unable to get my words out over the phone — Paul left the gathering to meet me.

When I asked him the question in person, he seemed confused.

“Dadbod?” he asked.“Like the graffiti guy? You asked me to leave my daughter’s birthday for this?”

I told him it was the most important question I would ever ask him.

“I thought you were having some sort of crisis!” he yelled, getting back into his Fiat.

As he sped away in his sensible Italian car, I knew I was never going to find Dadbod by conventional measures. Another dead end.

Become the Bod

It eventually hit me. To find Dadbod, I needed to understand who Dadbod was: I needed to become Dadbod.  Meaning, I would need to don the proverbial Dadbod and do something I had never done before — break the very law itself. (God help me, there was no choice but to commit the mortal sin of graffiti.)

Following the advice of a personal hero of mine, Vanessa Carlton, I made my way downtown, walking fast. As I got closer to my destination, a sickness welled up inside of me. A warning perhaps. Nevertheless, I forged ahead. And as I approached my intended trash can, aware this act would change the course of my life irrevocably, it dawned on me: I had failed to procure spray paint.

Blasphemy! There were no hardware stores close by, and I had already paid for parking (and I would be damned if I would move my car before the meter ran out).

Instead, I hurried to the Staples near the edge of downtown, stopping only briefly to grab a coffee and look around in Downtown Books & News. (I guess I also stopped in a couple of vintage stores, though I didn’t find anything in my size.)

Forty-five minutes to an hour (tops!) later, I dashed inside Staples, out of breath. I demanded that they take me to the spray paint section, only to find out that there was no such section. I refused to give up. I said, “I am not leaving until you help me commit vandalism.”

The employee seemed confused but pointed me to the Sharpies, I think mostly to get me to leave him alone because I was being quite loud. I grabbed a three-pack, immediately horrified by the package. It read: permanent markers. My God. Permanent. This was a bridge too far. Spray paint was hard to get off, but it was far from permanent. If I used these markers to write Dadbod, I would be going farther than even Dadbod has ever gone.

I couldn’t do it.

Instead, I decided to write Dadbod on an index card and tape it to the trash can. It would still be vandalism, but I wouldn’t have to commit to the permanence of the marker.

I returned to the scene of my future crime. My hands shook as I pulled the index card from my pocket. I uncapped the black Sharpie marker, cursing as I dropped the cap and watched it roll into a sewer drain. Before I even got to the graffiti, I had already broken the law. Littering. What had I become? (I should note that I also jaywalked. That light on Lexington takes so long.)

One final step and I would be joining Dadbod on this dark road. I painstakingly replicated his signature tag on the index card. It didn’t look exactly the same, but the spelling was correct.

As I reached into my other pocket for the tape to fasten it to the trash can, panic returned. The pocket was empty. I had forgotten the tape!

I was in too deep. I had already broken so many laws and been rude to so many Staples employees. I couldn’t back out now. The incriminating Dadbod tag sat on the newly purchased index card, taunting me. It seemed to say, “You’ve made it this far. Will you stop now? Are you a small, weak man holding an index card and teetering on indecision, or are you Dadbod?”

I knew my answer.

I valiantly tucked the card into the slats of the trash can. It would be almost impossible to remove it. I was Dadbod, damn it.

Yes, dear reader, it is true. I went searching for Dadbod not because it was easy or fun, but because it was an important question that needed an answer. Or so I thought when I began this quest. I know now that Dadbod is more than graffiti on the side of a building. Dadbod is more than two words put together and sometimes a movie quote or something. Dadbod is a people, a community. Dadbod is you and me. Dadbod is the spirit of revolution that burns deep in our soul, yearning for a better tomorrow. And I weep for us all. The path toward Dadbod-ism is no easy path. I know that now. In all of us, there is a darkness that propels us to tag Dadbod on things, though with any luck most of us will never find it. I know I hope to never see that side of myself again.