Illustration by Alex Chen
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“I’m hungry.”
“Hi Hungry, I’m Dad.”
It is one of those jokes that has never needed to be good in order to survive.
I heard a version of this joke during Sunday brunch at a family gathering where two of my uncles were doing what goofy uncles are apparently born to do: turn ordinary conversation into a series of jokes that hover somewhere between comedy and public service.
At first, I reacted the way most people usually do when a dad joke is heard. I groaned, rolled my eyes and then immediately thought, “Oh man, that was awful.”
But then, of course, I laughed.
Not a big laugh. Not the type of laugh that makes you lean back in your chair or clench your stomach. It was more a quiet breath escaping before I could stop it. A small reluctant chuckle. The sort of laugh that you almost resent, because now the joke-teller feels he has won.
But this time, sitting there, surrounded by my family, I started to wonder if that little laugh was doing more than I gave it credit for.
I began pondering the idea that without the small laughs, maybe the big laughs never develop.
That was the moment I started to see the dad joke differently. I always thought of it as a failed attempt at comedy, too obvious, too corny, too predictable. The punchline usually arrives with all the subtlety of someone walking into a glass door. Everyone sees it coming and somehow it still gets delivered with complete confidence.
But maybe that’s the point.
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A dad joke isn’t aimed to be the smartest joke in the room. Nor is it trying to be cool or clever. It’s trying to do something much simpler: to make the room feel safe enough to respond.
This matters at a family gathering. A room full of relatives can be warm. But it can also be careful. People are playing catch-up, asking questions, avoiding certain topics, trying not to say the wrong thing. Even people who love each other can feel a quiet pressure to be appropriate, interesting, agreeable and not too awkward.
Then someone makes the harmlessly wrong comment first. Someone says the pun. Someone risks the groan. Someone volunteers to be uncool.
There is generosity in that.
The person telling the dad joke knows it might fail. In fact, failure is almost built into the form. The joke is often funny because it is bad and everyone knows it is bad, including the person telling it. That shared understanding gives everyone a role. You can laugh. You can groan. You can say, “That was terrible.” You can shake your head. You can fire back with something worse.
Even the eye roll becomes participation.
And once people participate, the room changes. One small laugh loosens the air. One bad joke leads to a better joke. A better joke leads to a story. A story leads to real conversation. Suddenly, the room feels less guarded.
That is what I noticed with my uncles. They were not just telling bad jokes. They were maintaining the room. They were keeping it warm. They were creating little openings where people could tease, respond, relax and become less careful around one another.
That may sound too grand for a pun but I think it is true.
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In environments where people are often curated, cautious and afraid of saying the wrong thing, there is something almost noble about the person willing to say the harmlessly foolish thing first. Connection does not always begin with brilliance. Sometimes it begins with a bad joke and someone brave enough to deliver it.
So yes, the next time one of my uncles says, “I used to hate facial hair, but then it grew on me,” I will probably groan. I may roll my eyes. I may even perform the whole routine of pretending to be above it.
But I will do it with respect.
Because the dad joke is not just a punchline. It is a permission slip. It tells the room it’s safe to be playful, safe to be imperfect and safe to laugh at something small.
And without the small laughs, the big laughs do not develop.
Adam Kapasi lives in Toronto.