The straight pride parade in Boston — if we are to judge by the “Super Happy Fun America” website set up to promote and blog about the event — appears to be 98% satire. The comments include an incensed “father of 18” who insists “I do not need your stupid help to feel pride.” Said sire of eighteen is lamenting the “acceptance” frustration of his presumably one gay son.

I’m guessing this is satire as well, but it’s completely on point. If you don’t feel accepted, if you don’t feel worthy of praise and tolerance and admiration, how, really, would a parade change things? Conversely, if you are the fecund patriarch of 18, how could a parade, specifically staged to put the audience awkwardly in mind of your eighteen conception triumphs, make you any more proud?

I’m a real parent. For all my parental griefs and failures, the faces of my children constitute the daily parade, and it’s much better than a march down the street once a year. It’s a kind of daily spiritual balm that settles down deep in your soul, seasoned well when you get a text from your kid telling you how much he enjoyed the conversation the other night.

You can’t conjure up contentment with a bunch of feather boas and cymbals clanging. That party will be over tomorrow — and it won’t have meant much of anything.