Hey, son. If you’re watching this video, I’m dead.
There are so many things I want to do with you. Pat you on the back. Toss the pigskin. Fire up the grill and roast some BarbeCube. I want to tell you about BarbeCube, son. The greatest creation of my life. Besides you.
Have you ever felt like there’s too much meat on a rack of ribs in proportion to the barbecue sauce? Of course you have. You’re my son. Imagine a series of alternating layers of meat and sauce in the shape of a huge cube. I always knew that after I died, I would leave behind something bigger than just you and me. The 12-foot by 12-foot by 12-foot BarbeCube.
Son, have you ever wondered why I spent half my time building a walk-in freezer in the garage and the other half pressing pork loin into thin sheets with my bare hands? Why one Christmas I had to use rejected meat sheets to wrap your presents? You looked so surprised unwrapping all those empty bottles of barbecue sauce. Have you ever wondered why your mom left us? Me too.
You would climb into my lap even though I was covered in barbecue sauce and blood—my own—after another long day spent fruitlessly trying to assemble the Cube. You weren’t mad when you asked for a tree house and I built you a meat fort. You understood that we only had one car seat, and the BarbeCube needed it.
I can see it all now. Your old man doesn’t show up to your high school graduation. You’re mad, but you come home to find me out on the deck with a cube of meat as tall as you are. Boy, have you grown up, son. Boy, has the BarbeCube grown too.
At your wedding, I’m your best man and your caterer. You choose to serve BarbeCube instead of wedding cake. Your wife is a patent attorney and helps me make it big.
Son, you will take the BarbeCube in new directions. But not new shapes. One day, you’ll honor me by naming your son after the BarbeCube. Let your old man give you a gift better than our home or savings. Go ahead and open that freezer. I love you.