I grew up obsessed with David Letterman’s Top Ten Lists. The stupid drum roll, the pause before number one, the way something could be both totally ridiculous and weirdly true at the same time—I ate it up.
So in the grand tradition of unnecessary rankings and deeply important nonsense, I present: my official Top Ten Dad Rules. No scientific basis, highly biased, and absolutely correct.
They’re not in order of ranking of importance, but more guidelines on what rules I adhere to in my home, and I’m curious as to what rules you have in yours. But without further ado:
Rule #1 THE REMOTE RULE
Every TV deserves a good remote.
So there are many TV remotes. And they have buttons. And allegedly the buttons do things. That’s all well and good.
And then in our house, there is Savant. Billed as a whole‑home automation system, it’s also a remote that somehow makes the complex slightly more complex, but in an elegant way. Does one need a Savant remote? No. Does it make life easier in my situation? Also probably no. Does it look really cool? Okay, I’m tired of answering your negative questions.
But I really like it. I like having scenes programmed, and music that can link up multiple rooms like I live in a demo home at CES. Plus, Traci can figure it out and that’s a win. But if I’m the one holding the Savant, just buckle up and enjoy the ride.
Rule #2 THE DIY RULE
I want to be the guy who fixes things. I really do. I like puzzles, I like figuring stuff out, I like the idea that I’m the dude who can stare thoughtfully at a problem, grunt once or twice, and then just…fix it.
But I also live on planet Earth, where there are approximately seven billion people and probably half of them who will do most things better than me, faster than me, and without smashing their own thumb with a hammer. So for the big stuff? I hire professionals. Tech and audio? Pros. Movers? Absolutely better them than me. The dog door in the screen? Thumbtack stranger, come on down.
Basically, if it’s a small job—like assembling IKEA furniture—I’m willing to bleed for it personally. I’ll give it a crack, earn my blister, and misread the instructions like a man. But changing the oil in my car? Nah. I’m also very interested in discovering what I’m NOT good at, and I would prefer that discovery not involve my engine falling out on the 405.
So no, I don’t fix everything. But I want first right of refusal. I get first crack at deciding if we’re calling in a pro. If someone else makes that call before I’ve at least squinted at the problem? That bugs me way more than the broken thing.
RULE #3 – THE DRIVER’S PLAYLIST RULE
This should go without saying: the person driving curates the playlist. Always.
I prefer to drive. My car, my music. My Tidal playlist is next‑level amazing — Chris Stapleton to Eric Clapton to Ed Sheeran to Beyoncé to One Direction to Pearl Jam, and on and on. It’s eclectic to some, but it’s amazing to those with great taste. If you ride shotgun and complain about a track, I will kindly and professionally move you to the back seat of opinions.
RULE #4 – THE GRILL COMMANDMENT
I have a Traeger. I am KING of the Traeger.
Here’s the thing. I’m not out here pretending I’m some rugged, cowboy‑hat, “I only grill over mesquite I chopped myself at dawn” guy. I am a man who likes good food and clear instructions. And the Traeger looked into my soul and said, “What if we gave *that* guy a grill that does all the thinking for him, and just lets him feel like a legend?”
I mean, I have an app on my phone that basically says, “Just put it in here and walk away, you idiot.” That is my love language. That is how you turn me from “dude who burns frozen pizza sometimes” into “oh my gosh this brisket is ridiculous, who ARE you?”
The Traeger smokes, it grills, it bakes. It makes the food tastes extra gooder. The oven is like Phoenix in the summer: dependably hot, a little boring, always there when you need it. The Traeger is like the hot artist who cooks, paints, does housework, massages your shoulder, and folds laundry. It’s unfair, and I’m absolutely fine with that.
So yes, I will absolutely stand outside in questionable weather, staring at my app, occasionally lifting the lid like I know what I’m looking at. I am in a committed man‑machine collaboration, and together we create magic.
RULE #5 – THE BATHROOM SIGN
If the bathroom door is closed, that is not a suggestion. That is not a gentle whisper. That is not an invitation to knock and ask a 47-part question about your day. A closed bathroom door is the dad version of the White House Situation Room: once it’s sealed, you better have a national emergency or wait it out.
Because here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud: whatever is happening in there is between me, my digestive system, and the ventilation fan that’s giving it everything it’s got. You don’t want to be part of that story. You don’t want the director’s cut. You don’t even want the trailer. When I say “give it a minute,” that’s not a cute little phrase; that is a public safety announcement.
So yes, if the door is closed, it’s a Do Not Disturb zone. No yelling through the door, no jiggling the handle, no “since you’re in there can you also…?” requests. And when I finally emerge and say, “You probably don’t want to go in there,” that is not a joke. That is me being a gracious, loving protector of your nostrils. You’re welcome.
RULE #6 – THE PUN PRINCIPLE
Every situation is an opportunity for a pun. That’s not just a guideline, that’s a core value. If there is a word with even the faintest chance of sounding like another word, my brain is already halfway to a terrible joke or the lyric to a song before you finish your sentence. I’m not listening for meaning; I’m listening for setup.
And yes, I absolutely know how annoying this is. That’s the art form. If you laugh, great. If you groan and stare at me like you’re reconsidering our entire relationship, even better. The joke isn’t over until someone says “oh my gosh, stop” and walks away. That’s when I know I’ve done my job.
RULE #7 – THE DAD JOKE LEGACY
These jokes are not just for you. You are merely the current victim in a long and noble bloodline. Since the creation of Adam by God, Dad after Dad has bestowed this glorious gift and now it is my sacred duty to continue the cycle until one of you hears a setup in the wild and feels that uncontrollable itch to say something dumb. That’s when the torch officially passes.
You rolling your eyes at me today is just training for when your own kid says, “Dad, I’m hungry,” and without thinking you fire back, “Hi Hungry, I’m Dad.” You’ll hate yourself a little, you’ll hear my voice in your head, and you’ll do it again anyway. Because at some point you realize: it’s not about the joke being good, it’s about the fact that “it’s yours now.”
In my house, we don’t escape the dad jokes, we inherit them. And one day, when your kid groans and walks out of the room, you’ll smile to yourself and think, “Nailed it.” That’s the legacy.
RULE #8 — THE “I’M NOT MAD” RULE
When I say “I’m not mad,” the correct response is to assume I’m filing the event away for later use — not that it never happened. Translation: I’m not mad now, I’m a slow-burn archivist. I will watch, I will remember, and there’s a 73% chance I’ll bring it up at the exact worst possible moment (usually during dessert or while loading the dishwasher).
So don’t panic. Be honest. Admit the thing. Apologize if needed. Then accept that I’ll either forget in a day or keep the receipt in my brain forever. Either way, you’ll survive — but I will never let it become boring.
RULE #9 – THE PAJAMA RULE
Pajamas are not a sign I’ve given up. Pajamas are a lifestyle choice. If I’m in pajama pants, it means I’ve optimized for comfort and efficiency. I can answer emails, refill a prescription, order groceries, and pay bills all while looking like I’m one step away from a nap. That’s not quitting, that’s peak performance.
And yes, sometimes the pajamas escape the house. Quick pharmacy run? Drive‑thru food? Late‑night Target? If the pants have a drawstring, they are eligible. This is not “public embarrassment,” this is being honest with the world about who I am: a man who has paid his dues, loves his family, and refuses to put on jeans for a fifteen‑minute errand ever again.
If Hugh Hefner can build an empire in a robe, I can pick up a mobile order in plaid flannel. In this house, we respect the pajama.
RULE #10 — THE PURE HONESTY TO YOUR QUESTION CLAUSE
If you ask me a question, you’re signing a waiver for blunt honesty. “Does this make me look fat?” “Do I look good in this dress?” “What do you think of my new haircut?” — there is no filter, no soft landing, no internal committee reviewing the answer before it exits my mouth. Some people have that little safety mechanism that says, “maybe don’t say that out loud.” I do not. I get to be just as surprised by what I say as you are the moment it leaves my lips.
So if you don’t actually want the real answer, don’t ask the question. If you hear “ask me later,” that’s not me dodging — that’s the emergency brake. That means the answer in my head is currently labeled “unsafe for immediate release,” and I’m actively trying to save your feelings, our evening, or both. Ignore this rule at your own risk.
Thanks for indulging my top ten nonsense. These rules are part joke, part survival guide, and all behavior I’ve tried on for size over the years—some stuck, some got retired, and a few are still pending appeal. They’re less a manual and more a portrait: the dad I’ve been, the dad I’m trying to keep being, and the one I’ll probably rewrite in a decade. If anything here made you laugh, groan, or nod along like you recognized the exact person I was talking about, then mission accomplished. Now cue the drum roll, and enjoy number one.
Paul Ellis 
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