Daddy, Stop Talking!: And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

by Adam Carolla

  I’ve tinkered with the idea of an app that creates the sound of a child knocking on the door so guys can go into hyper-drive and just finish up quick. Just set it on the nightstand before hitting the sheets and set the countdown clock.

  Of course, when it comes to sex, there is a big difference between men and women. Women care about circumstance and atmosphere. Men don’t. We’re mechanical. There are sex dolls for guys. There’s no version of that for women. Women need to be in the mood. The wife can’t get into it when she can hear the kids downstairs. For guys, having the kids downstairs watching Barney just lets us know that it’s game on. That’s a half hour we know we’re able to bang.

  Having kids has messed with the most intimate relationship I have, with my own hand. Not in quantity, but in quality. I always thought that when I got married and had kids I would cut back on the beating off. I assumed having a wife to have sex with and kids running around, especially a daughter, would throw a wet blanket on the whole activity. Not so. In fact, I’ve probably doubled down on the jacking off.

  As I said, my house is a beehive of activity with nannies chasing kids, gardeners blowing leaves and maids running vacuums. But every once in a while I find myself alone and have the following conversation: “Hey, dick?” “Yeah, Adam?” “You ready to party?” “Let me check with the balls. But they’re like lunchmeat, they’re always ready.” I should rename my dick Andy Dick, because it’s always down to party.

  So I’m alone with a magical box containing two hundred and thirty-five thousand hours of pornography from across the globe and throughout time. I could spend the rest of my life looking at it, and believe me I’m trying, and still not see it all. It’s a wonderwall of debauchery—anal, interracial, vintage, German-stump porn—whatever you’re into, it’s there for you.

  Sorry, fellas, for outing us, but ladies, if you ever get this call on your cell phone, you know your guy is ready to have at himself. “Hey, honey, just checking in. Where are you?” We usually don’t give a shit. But now we want the GPS coordinates and approximate travel speed. We’re triangulating your position to maximize beat-off time. “At the mall? Huh. Nearby mall or the faraway mall? Just curious. Just curious . . . oh, you just got there? Good. Take your time. Relax. Try out that massaging chair at the Brookstone. You deserve it. Don’t rush home. But when you do leave, just give me a call . . . so I know you’re safe. In fact, just let it ring once and then hang up. And then as you’re pulling up the driveway just give a toot-toot on the horn so I know you’re home.” We actually want to know when you’re pulling in the driveway so we can finish pulling on our penis and pull up our pants.

  So alone with the porn-u-copia, you start having at yourself and god does the time fly. Seasons are changing outside the window. Fall turns to winter, like in a movie where calendar pages are flying away. Your pubes go gray.

  When I finish with this spirited session, I’m immediately disgusted with myself. I’m in my refractory period, thinking, “Never again. What’s wrong with you? You could have invented something in that two hours! You’ll never get that time back! And that girl is probably a runaway. That’s somebody’s daughter. You sicken me.” So I angrily grab the mouse, click the browser closed and pow!

  This is my computer. My desktop background picture used to be one of my cars, but when I wasn’t paying attention my wife swapped it for a picture of the kids.

  Believe me, she knew what she was doing. I’m sure this shot was staged. I can hear Lynette coaching them, “Natalia, could you look a little more disgusted? And, Sonny, go ahead and laugh a little bit harder at what a loser Daddy is.” It’s as if they’re trying to say, “It’s a miracle we’re even here with all the beating off you do. What did Mommy do, go to the hamper and squeeze out a tube sock?”

  Let me try to end on a more positive note. This one involves another bathroom interruption but, this time, there was a nice ending. I had gotten up early one morning to do a bunch of radio interviews. In between, I sipped on my coffee and munched on a fiber bar. Well, of course, the bowels got moving, so I plopped down on the toilet. I didn’t bother to close the door, as it was just me and the kids at home, no nannies or maids to bust in.

  The bathroom I’m referring to is small and windowless. Thinking I was alone, and just popping in for a quickie, I left the door ajar about a foot and a half. Partway through my deuce dropping, boom-boom, out goes the light. (Bonus points to anyone who got the Pat Travers reference there.)

  Someone had walked past the bathroom, flipped off the light and kept walking, wordless. I quickly did the math and yelled out, “Sonny, did you shut off the light?” He said, “Oh, were you in there? I’m sorry.” I did a quick wipe, stood up and walked out of the bathroom. I reached for him, choking up a bit, “Don’t you ever apologize to me for that,” and squeezed him like he was a tube of toothpaste. I’m constantly railing about the wasted electricity in my home and he had proven, with one flip of a switch, that he actually listens to me. It was a great moment. I’ve never been so proud of him or so happy to have my rare alone time on the throne of my castle interrupted.

  CHAPTER 3

  Don’t Be This Guy

  AS THIS BOOK is filled with advice for my kids, I’d like to take a little time to list the people that I hope they don’t grow up to be. Kids, pay attention. I’m laying down a preemptive disownment if you become this guy or gal.

  First Up: Sonny Boy’s List of Don’ts

  Zombie Guy: Not naming names, but one of the guys that I employ took a ration of shit from me one day because he was wearing an Evil Dead T-shirt.

  I just don’t get the fascination with the undead. We’re all undead. Big deal. And I feel like any one of us could outrun a zombie. They don’t run; they don’t even jog. They shuffle. It’s like being scared of the eighty-four-year-old guy dragging his oxygen tank through a casino.

  It feels like there are a hundred shows and a million movies about zombies. Are we not satisfied with this topic? I keep seeing shit about the zombie apocalypse. I’m pretty sure we have a military that could handle that situation. A bunch of decomposing guys ambling toward you, mumbling “brains,” aren’t going to be much match for an M1 Abrams tank.

  I haven’t seen Evil Dead, so it’s not an issue with that specific movie. It is the fact that this dude is in his early forties. How are we so out of problems that forty-three-year-old educated men can be obsessed with the undead? I’ve long complained about adult males who are into this nerd fantasy bullshit, whether it’s zombies, comic books, Game of Thrones, whatever. When did it become okay for guys to start talking about how much they were anticipating the Silver Surfer movie, and how devastated they were when it didn’t live up to their expectations? We all have computers with porno and Wikipedia. You could become an expert on something in a weekend. Do it.

  Foreskin Restoration Guy: Sorry for the cock talk, son, but if you end up as one of these assholes, I’ll know I did a shitty job as dad. Because that’s what this whole deal boils down to. If you complain about your foreskin, it is just another way of saying, “I hate you, Dad.” We did have you circumcised mostly for the hygiene aspect, otherwise you’d have to pull that banana peel back and do a little extra cleaning. Plus, I was hoping that you’d play a skill position on the football team, and every ounce of weight you can cut counts.

  For some bizarre reason, out here in California there is a movement to ban circumcision. It should not be shocking to you that this movement is centered around ultra-liberal places like San Francisco and Santa Monica. And there are guys who go through various surgeries and attach weights and insert balloons to supposedly restore their foreskin. That’s a lot of calories burned just to freak out your next hooker. I know that uncut is natural, but it just looks weird. It’s like a Doberman with floppy ears. That’s how God created them, but they look fucked up.

  These guys always make a big stink about supposedly being mutilated. I’m pretty sure we’ve been doing this for thousands of years. Heck, it’s
a sacred rite in Jewish culture. Which is why they all become agents: They’re used to taking ten percent off the top. Half the world is cut and the other half is uncut, and it hasn’t made a shit bit of difference. So, Sonny, if you’re making a big deal about your now smaller penis, that means you’re just pissed at me about something else. You’ve picked a cause to pour that anger into. This is not an issue. This one we should file under “Who gives a fuck?” Don’t be one of those dicks who has to make it about their dick.

  Formerly Fat Guy: I think you’ll have a good metabolism like your mom, Sonny, and this shouldn’t be an issue, but, just in case, if you do gain a bunch of weight, just stay that way until you have your massive coronary.

  Tom Arnold came up on the podcast recently, and I saw a picture of his now skinny ass. I didn’t like it. We need to get the word out to all the formerly fat people that if they’re planning on getting skinny, we’re not into it. We know you as the fat guy first. No matter what your nationality is, what your job is, what your sexual proclivities are, fat trumps all. To us you’re just the fat Asian guy, or the fat guy in accounts payable, or the fat gay dude.

  And, personally, I like fat guys, because they make me feel better about myself. When you get into it with a fat guy you always win. If a cop writes you a chicken-shit ticket, and you look in the rear-view mirror and see him waddle back to his cruiser, you can think, “I win, because you’re a lard ass and I’m not.” If a guy swipes the spot you were trying to park in at the Costco, and he gets out of the car and you see that he’s a wide load there to get a pallet of Chef Boyardee, you can think, “I win, Tubby, even though I’m here to buy Rogaine and wine.” Even if the guy is getting out of a Bentley in front of a salon in Beverly Hills and you’re in a Daihatsu Charade, you can still think, “I win,” as you watch him waddle in for his weekly pedicure in elastic waist pants.

  What former fatties forget about, especially the guys, is that you don’t go from fat to skinny in our eyes, you go from fat to weird. We don’t understand you anymore. That was your identity. We were all thrown off for a year like when Jonah Hill lost all that weight. And don’t even get me started on what’s become of Al Sharpton. Al, get back in your velour tracksuit with the giant medallion and jog on over to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, we miss you.

  Weird Handshake Guy: Sonny, one of the signs of being a real man is having a real handshake. A nice firm grip that says, “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” So don’t become one of those guys who has a limp handshake, for God’s sake.

  We’ve all experienced this. We go for the shake and it’s like the Pope holding out his hand for you to kiss his ring. Are you afraid that you’re gonna have a big meeting with some Japanese businessmen later and want to save your grip?

  There are lots of variants on the lame handshake. There’s the guy who grips the front of your hand and just milks your cuticles. Or the guy who has an odd style of handshake. I don’t mean the soul brother complicated eight-stage handshake. I’m talking about the guy who takes the traditional handshake but instead of going up and down he goes right to left, or who takes your hand and turns it ninety degrees so that it is flat, and then shakes. People won’t think, “It is nice doing business with you,” if you go in with a handshake like this. They will think, “Too bad he was bullied as a child,” instead.

  Empty Ice-Cube Tray in the Freezer Guy: I know this seems a little specific, but it is time to focus on the tuned-out fuck at your office, or God forbid, your home, who is too ignorant of other people and so wrapped in their own thoughts that they can pull off a move like leaving an empty ice-cube tray in the freezer. I have encountered this in my own studio. One of the lackeys used up all the ice and couldn’t take the 8.34 seconds it takes to pour some water into the tray before putting it back in the freezer so that when the bossman wants to toss a couple cubes in his Coke, they’re ready. You know you took the last one, you can feel the weight difference as you slide the empty tray back in. This is like putting an empty toilet-paper tube back on the holder. These are the same assholes who don’t put the tin foil back on the tray of food at the staff lunch, so that the flies can shit on the roast beef. It’s not that they forget—it’s that they don’t give a crap.

  Then there is the dick who leaves the microwave door open. The microwave at our studio is a constant issue for me. Not only do people leave the door open for the light bulb to burn some extra kilowatts for no fucking reason, they’ll leave time on there, too. If you take your shit out of the microwave early, just zero it out so that I don’t have to deal with it. I shit you not, I put a cup of coffee in the microwave and went to hit start and some asshole had left it at 3:31. What the fuck were you microwaving that you could take it out and still have over three minutes left, a buffalo? And why didn’t you zero it out? Enjoy that 3:31, whoever you are, because once I get to the bottom of this, that’s how long you have left under my employment.

  Anti-Milk Guy: Speaking of food and drink, there is another jag-off that I hope my son never becomes. The anti-milk guy. It’s nearly 2020 and we’re still arguing about milk. We all know the idiots who say, “We’re the only animal that drinks another animal’s milk.” These are the same Whole Foods ass-Wholes who say, “People weren’t meant to eat meat.” Then why do I have incisors, numbnuts? Those fang teeth we all have evolved for the pure purpose of tearing at meat.

  These idiots also say, “We’re the only mammal that drinks milk into adulthood.” Here’s what I have to say to all those mammalian motherfuckers. I don’t see any manatees inventing Facebook. Maybe they would if they started drinking some other mammals’ milk into adulthood. I’m going to gather all of these dickwads in San Francisco (and many of them wouldn’t have a long commute to get there), park the Space Shuttle on the Golden Gate Bridge and say, “Hey, bitches, any other mammals come up with this shit? No? Then shut the fuck up and drink some milk.”

  Unfinished Beer Guy: I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a party on a Saturday night, and then walk around for an hour on Sunday morning, tearfully emptying 2,600 unfinished beers. I feel like the guys who removed the bodies from a Civil War battlefield. Where’s the honor? You’re not supposed to leave a wounded man behind. Who is the asshole that grabs a cold beer the host of the party paid for, cracks it, takes one-and-a-half sips, then sets it down without a coaster to sweat and leave a ring on their Steinway? How is this okay? Are you that much of a puss, or did you start the beer right before the Feds busted in, and you had to jump out the window? This is far worse than the guy who has too many and pukes into the potted plant. I’d much rather you be the asshole who finishes his beer and passes out with a lampshade on his head than the one who can’t finish that last three ounces of Michelob Ultra. Make your old man proud, Sonny boy.

  Next Up: Natalia’s No Nos

  Breastfeeding Activist: The female version of the anticircumcision crusader is the breastfeeding activist. Yes, breastfeeding is natural and important. It’s not the act that bothers me. It’s the enormous deal made about the act. When it comes time to breastfeed find a nice corner and a blanket, and take care of business. Don’t be the chick who wants to sit on top of the player piano in the mall and breastfeed in full view, and then lawyers up and sues when someone asks you to go to a less public space. For you breastfeeding blowhards, this isn’t about breastfeeding at all. It’s about you calling attention to yourself. You could feed your baby anywhere, but you choose high noon at the Vatican so when someone says put a blanket over it you can alert the media. Urinating is also completely natural and important, but if I took a leak into the fountain at the Bellagio, I’d be zip-tied and thrown in a Vegas jail cell (again).

  It’s like the guy with the aggressive piercings and facial tattoos that gives you the “What the fuck are you looking at?” when you stare. Mission accomplished. You’re angry, so you do something to get yourself judged, and then you get angry about being judged. There’s a way for you to breastfeed without drawing attention to yourself
, lactivists. You choose to do it publicly and make a crusade out of it to make it about you. Do I need to see tits every time I go to Foot Locker? I just don’t know why these breastfeeding activists need to shove their titties down my throat. (Actually . . . I’m turning the corner on this one.)

  Half-Marathon Chick: I’m not a big fan of the marathon, and the people who need to prove something to themselves and get that picture with the tin-foil poncho being put over them at the finish line, but whatever. What I really don’t like is the way the marathon shuts down the city. It’s even worse when it’s a half-marathon. Everyone reading this could complete a half-marathon. If your car broke down 13.1 miles from civilization, do you think you’d just impale yourself on the hood ornament? No, you’d just walk that half-marathon. A lot of people doing the half-marathon are walking it anyway. To them, I ask, would you brag to someone that you climbed half of Mount Everest, or that you were playing hoops and you went to the one-and-a-half point stripe and drained one, or that you grabbed half a boobie? If you have something to prove, lock yourself in your apartment and don’t take a shit for two days. That’s way more impressive.

  So, Natalia, if you become one of those ladies with the “13.1” bumper sticker on your Subaru please drive it 13.1 miles away from me and never look back.

  Drunk Woman Who Calls Herself a MILF or Cougar: The rise of the terms MILF and cougar has given drunken older broads carte blanche to continue being loud and annoying way past the point at which we guys would tolerate it. The twenty-two-year-old chick dancing on a table at the bar can be an annoying twat as long as she wants, because we’re all hoping that, in the midst of that annoyance, she’ll lift her top. But when it’s the forty-two-year-old, we’re not interested, just irritated. But because her appletini-drinking desperate housewife friends have enabled her by calling her a cougar, we all have to deal with her nonsense. Now that she’s a MILF or a cougar, she feels okay acting trashy. If we all just called her what she really is, “Mom,” she’d slow down pretty fucking quick.