Insert Foot vs. boyfriends and National Daughters Day.

Social media told me Saturday was National Daughters Day, which I didn’t know existed.

My first thought was to wonder if Iron Maiden celebrates “Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter” day.

My second thought was to think my first thought was weird, and to stop thinking it.

My third thought was “Does this make every other day not your daughter’s day?” Which meant I was briefly caught applying some modern anti-logic (“No … ALL lives matter!”) to something someone is using some way to manipulate me on Facebook.

Because I’ve seen “The Social Dilemma.” The Zuckerberg is coming to get me. I know things.

In that spirit, I didn’t celebrate National Daughter’s Day. Which doubtless makes me less of a quality father than those who turned on their computer, accidentally discovered a new holiday, panicked, tried remembering if gifts were necessary, panicked more, then put some half-ass picture of their kid on Facebook and hoped they looked like they loved her.

Suckers.

No, I’m much more practical than them. I went to the store and bought my 18-year-old some milk, which I thought was pretty nice.

I have four daughters, last I counted. I just took a day off work to help one move, after being asked (told) I was doing so at 8 the previous night, and that “it wouldn’t take long.” Which was a lie, as usual. Because “it won’t take long” is code for “I hope you don’t have plans the next 24 hours.”

So I’m pretty sure THAT was my daughter’s day.

Speaking of daughters, I recently had the freaky weird experience of sitting in the same room with my two teen daughters and their boyfriends, having a conversation. I didn’t even know one of them liked boys until recently. She probably didn’t either.

This was a first for me. My eldest daughter who lies about moving has brought boyfriends around, of course. But this was the first time I got boyfriends (plural) pointed at my face, point blank, with both barrels.

I didn’t know it at the time–because I guess I don’t keep up with fake holidays born from boredom and an annoying need to make every day special–but that counts as their national daughters’ day.

It’s not that I didn’t like the conversation, or even the guys (I’m saying that in case my girls suddenly break lifelong habits and try reading something I write). Especially since both guys are musicians; one being a pretty devoted punk rocker who has played 924 Gilman Street and who may or may not have been impressed that my band used to play Mabuhay Gardens in the ’80s.

I know, I know, I know … I shouldn’t bring that up. But my kid brought it up first, saying, “Didn’t you interview one of the Dead Kennedys?” Which started me blithering about my ancient punk rock friends –because I no longer have any connections to coolness, so I say desperate things–only to realize it sounded desperate, which then made me REALLY desperate, causing me to do it all over AGAIN.

The punk rocker did wear a mask for all 90 minutes of our visit, which I don’t know is very punk rock or not. But it is smart, so good on him.

At least no one bled on anyone.

When I was 18 and longhaired, I went on a date and met the nice girl’s conservative dad for the first time. My nervousness precluded me from remembering not to slam my hand in my car door upon arrival.

Then I shook dad’s hand.

Right. When you bleed on someone’s father on the first date, it’s really all downhill from there. So my kids are really ahead of the game, as far as I’m concerned.

Have a non-bloody, disease-free week.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.