I hate to admit it but I’m too liberal with my screaming voice, especially around my 3 children, especially around Matilda, my 1st born. My best friend in the universe. I recall getting jealous of her wish at the mall once. I give her a quarter to throw in the fountain. I ask what she wished for. She wished, her old school Pre-K friend Cecilia never dies. And I say. “Did you ever considering wishing that your borderline hilarious dad never bombs on stage with an untested opener again sunshine? Because once the hole is dug, you’re like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill flailing with all of your might, in a coffin buried six feet under. And I never took Kung Fu like yourself to learn the 5-point palm exploding heart technique to use in case I’m confronted with another life or death emergency of my own doing, again and again.”
Last night, I’m downstairs with my wife watching the season finale for Always Sunny, “Mac Finds His Pride”, all 3 kids are asleep, so I think around nine. Then, I hear some slight feet poundage upstairs. I freak out prematurely. What’s new? And yell “go to bed” like Charlie from Always Sunny because he yells all his lines 99% of the time. And my pith perfect daughter replies in an ultra-upset perplexed state, “I was just going to the bathroom.” Talk about feeling like a total rageful, hateful, Twitter Twat resistor on the spot. Within less than 2 seconds, I became what I detest most. The yelling, hysterical, bile bully cliché incarnate.
I always stress to my kids the importance of trusting their gut to determine right from wrong. So, wanting to keep my a-hole enshrouded hypocritical streak from sapping it of all parental pride left all together. I dart upstairs to kiss my best friend on the cheek and stroke her forehead before telling her I’m sorry. “Daddy overreacted, and you don’t deserve to be yelled at ever. I’m so sorry. It’s ok Daddy. I just had to go to the bathroom. Stop rubbing it in, I feel crappy enough already.”
But is yelling at your kids really so bad? It didn’t work out too well for me as a kid. My dad yelled at me most when he coached me in basketball in elementary school. “Go up strong, stop jamming your fingers already, you knock-kneed freak. I don’t know how were related. Stop playing so soft. Who runs down the court on their tippy toes? I blew one hundred twenty dollars on David Robinson High Tops, not Jimmy Choo’s.” Or during Thanksgiving 1 year I recall my dad requesting with begrudging this is all my son has to offer bile. “Say something funny”, because that’s all your good for obviously. Would have I turned out to be less of an indecisive nervous wreck in high school on the court or off, especially around girls until I finally got to 2nd base summer after my Junior year in High School on a Kibbutz in Israel, if my dad was more of an emotive empowerer than a Screaming Nazi? I think so. Here I go again, using loaded Nazi language from the too liberal screamers on the left, using, reprehensible Nazi smears to silence any differing opinion against open borders for anyone who wants to crash our boomtime post Trumpian economy. No bouncers, metal detectors or dress code required.
Then again, I didn’t give my father much to emote about outside of killing it during my Bar Mitzvah during my Haftorah portion reading, which we worked on together. My dad reflects today. “Now your younger brother sucked up the joint at his Bar Mitzvah big time.” But my younger brother was always the favorite because he played football and that’s all that matters for my American Dad. You want not 1 but 2 girlfriends invited to your Bar Mitzvah party who you mounted during your mountain climbs during Wilderness Ventures, no problem, more the merrier son. Hold the party at a fancy country club in Lake Isle vs the shabby interior of the Reform Temple, normally used for seminars on “REFORMED WAYS TO NOT TOTALLY DISMISS JESUS AS FAKE NEWS PROPHET OF ANY KIND” Or other reform minded seminars including “HOW REFORMED JEWS CAN BE LESS ANTI-CHRIST.” But let’s be honest here folks. Comparing the wrathful tone of Leviticus to the PG friendly book of Matthew is like comparing Samantha Bee these days to Mr. Rogers.
The thing is my 3 kids, especially Matilda, never give me any real reason to yell at them. She looks up to me, respects me, cheers me, launches into yummy dances in honor of my veggie casserole supreme. Whizzing around the house with her 2 brothers behind, chanting, “best daddy ever, best daddy ever.” Just yesterday, my 7-year old daughter Matilda, Miss Musicality, draws me a complimentary Pinterest like Pinboard drawing on my computer paper of me teaching her about our 3 past General US presidents yesterday for Veterans Day. Drawing a guitar with lipstick on it, signifying her dad’s love for Poison’s C.C Deville’s guitar shafts in the video Nothing but Good Time. Who could resist? After I’m done playing teacher, which my daughter draws in crayon on her picture of me, “Dad playing teacher.” I say to my daughter. “Matilda if anyone at school ever says George Washington was a racist, you tell them he was the only slave holding US president ever to release all 120 of them. Plus, on top of that he hooked up all his ex-slaves with trust funds for their labors out of white privilege, I’m assuming. Which I can buy into 400 years ago as a living, breathing, oppressive, dehumanizing, non-Kosher reality, obviously.” My daughter replies. “But daddy, what’s a trust fund? It’s a paycheck you get every month from your rich parents when you get older. But it’s spread out over time to ensure you don’t become a coked-out, tormented degenerate. Who only hears last call from the bathroom stall for starters. Nobody earns the nickname Sir Snort A Lot for nothing.”
Sweet, Singing Rose Matilda. She always slept when I went for runs in her stroller along the Bronx River as I prepared for my 1st half marathon in Maine. Which I completed, hobbled with what felt like Daniels Day’s Lewis wart infested, callous hardened, stress attack of a sprained, club left foot for my final 6-mile stretch. Pure adrenaline and me telling myself, prove to your dad you’re not soft, pushed me past the finish line with super charged, kick start my heart, sober revived Motley Crew gusto. Then, I went to my kiss my 2-year-old son, Art Show USA after blazing past the finish line. Come to think of it, finishing strong has always been my forte assuming I commit to finishing before new goals grip my inner drive whole. I’m an all over the place, exhausting Aries through and through I know.
Anyway, back to my stupendous, high stepping, poor man’s prime time dart across the half marathon finish line. I dart right over to my beautiful, 1-year old son, Arthur Morison, most fuss free birth ever.
Been a radiant light of good vibrations and a hilarious undertow of sweet powered undertow ever since. So, there he is my beautiful boy. Who I want to love better and be a dream emotive empowerer the way I’ve continued to strive to be for his big sister and baby brother Samuel now. I lean in to hug my boy and my stiff, bore of a mother-in-law extends her stubby forearm and stiff arms me, trying to prevent me from embracing my beautiful, victorious moment with my baby boy because he was “sleeping.” I mouthed off. “You see the kids how many times each year? And now your playing concerned, all knowing, in tune with my kids sleep rhythms Grandma. I don’t think so Crumpet breath. Jewish Doubtfire over here don’t play that. I’ve raised my 3 kids no thanks to you or my mother for that matter. If anything, your granddaughter Matilda, is the best, present, involved Grandma figure her younger brother Arthur and now baby Samuel have. Whose wise beyond her years. She reads to them, puts on Hula Hoop Hip Hop shows with them, leads exercise routines with them, grabs nappies and a beer for daddy from the fridge on demand, no resistance, no I’m tired, no I’m not your wet nurse, ever.”
My daughter Matilda has been with me for all of the greatest moments of my life, outside of me killing at the New York Comedy Club for 1 of my 1st bringer shows where my old high school buds showed up. Best compliment I got that night was from a kid who hijacked my best friend in high school. The hijacker friend after the show says. “Loved your set and I don’t even like you.”
I never forgave my fake news, supposed best friend in high school for never acknowledging my John Candy biography book I got for his birthday one year. I wrote an inscription inside the book and everything. Come to think of it, I haven’t found the sub best friend to give such a personal, expressive gift to since. Until, my daughter Matilda was born. We saw Billy Joel for her 3rd birthday in Madison Square Garden. My mom warns. Make sure my granddaughter wears ear plugs. And I’m thinking. Whatever mom, we’re seeing Billy Joel, not Metallica front row. As a whole, Bill Joel’s music, especially these days sounds like lullaby music for eighties Republicans but thanks for your all insightful, buzz kill input as always.
I never want to be without my daughter. She’s pure, pollutant free sunshine come rain or shine. Yelling at sweet Matilda ever is like yelling at the Great Barrier Reef if you were a stubborn minded Atheist till snorkeling down under. Now face to face with pristine maritime, Genesis creation in real life, not on the page wonder. Incapable of refuting God’s handywork all around you.
You don’t know what love is until you father a girl and have your 7-year-old daughter profess how much she prefers your company over mama. Not that I needed any verbal confirmation of those deep rooted, feelings because I felt them within the depths of my core already. By the way sweet Matilda jumps into my arms after school. By the way, she strokes my beard but not for too long or I cut her off before I tuck her in at night. Or from the way, she snuggles up close to me at night in bed to do more Mad Libs and insist I use Unibrow for body parts again and again, if Buffalo Balls wasn’t used already in our new Thanksgiving Mad Libs edition. I felt the depths of my daughters love when we made boatloads of commercials on YouTube for my creative tech design staffing agency that went nowhere. But the commercials were smart, creative and very funny. And my 6-year-old daughter back then, required minimal takes to nail her lines every time. We called it Comedy Camp. We even got the Rev Bob Levy from the Howard Stern show and Richard Lewis to throw nice warm words of praise in this do it all dad’s direction. Rev sends me a direct message on Twitter. “You got it kid, funny, very relaxed.” What a compliment, thanks Rev. I didn’t score 1 group laugh from stand-up comedy in LA for a whole year almost 12 years ago. Hard work really does pay off. But you most always work the muscle. Either you use or lose it.
The thing is I let myself be bullied and pushed around in high school because I didn’t know how to defend myself with my brain or fists. As a result, I’ve become determined to ensure my 3 children, starting with 1st born Matilda doesn’t suffer from the same fixable fate. My 7-Year Old Daughter is already Kettle bell dense strong. Thanks to me pushing Kettle Bells swing exercise starting at 4 upward. This is my daughter fat shaming to ensure I give up beer forever this time. “Daddy, I’ve got a 4 pack. You’ve got a zero pack.” Plus, Female Flash’s one-liners are far funnier fierce than mine will ever be, thanks to her absorption of my funny leanings and teachings of course, naturally.
“Always save the punchline for the last word Matilda, say it with relish, deliver it with forward force style, zero hesitation, keep punching, never relent, “think good and will be good.” It’s not the size of the dog, but the fight in it, but chill out on getting competitive with Jesus Christ for the time being.” If I want to trigger my daughter, I’ll say. “According to the Mormon’s, Jesus Christ was the closest thing to a perfect human being. My daughter replies. Why daddy, because he became a Jew for Jesus? Isn’t that big no, no, in our Old Testament Book?” One night, I made my 1st homemade pizza using cornmeal for the base, with burrata. Think cream filled mozzarella. I topped the pie with roasted cherry tomatoes from our garden, sliced and drizzled in olive oil, ample sea salt and fresh cut basil. Daughter takes 1 bite and says. “Daddy, I know you really want to be a stand-up comedian because you tell jokes all the time when we’re out of the house and always make strangers laugh at the deli and coffee shop, but can’t you be a pizza maker in heaven instead?” How can anyone in their right mind, feel compelled to ever be or act annoyed angry at that?
I used to think using a selective screaming voice was essential to signify when I was really pissed off at my kid’s behavior because I’ve always held them to higher social standards than ANITFA for starters. But if I’m brutally honest with myself, I haven’t been too selective with my screaming voice as of late. And in fact, become guilty of liberal overkill use of it.
Alternative solutions to my selective screaming voice to express extreme A+ annoyance? Mimicking my 20-month-old Samuel’s manufactured shrikes of discomfort with mere mimicry works like charm every time. I literally mimic his wincing wails with exaggerated, you’d think an Alien was eating my intestines about now look and my baby boy laughs hysterically at my mimicry. Because I’m killing the pseudo tense, projected mood by making my 20-month-old son laugh. Mirroring how ridiculous his fake news freak-out attacks appear in actual reality. And the essence of laughter is a cathartic release of pent up overblown, pouty prissiness. Controlling your kids with comedy really works folks.
But the same managing approach applies to your employers also. If you mimic how ridiculous your Software Engineer sounds if they start bitching about shared Taco Tuesdays knowing, they’re free and the Al Pastor ones are a slow cooker braised, succulent delight unavailable to you at home because your working wife doesn’t cook. It will give the employee a needed dose of diva highlighting perspective in a NY minute. Our children mirror our behavior and so do employees. If a boss always talks down to you like a stupid kid. They’re going to act petulant, feel sorry for themselves, retreat into a little shell under their nightie and blame their boss for keeping them down instead of accepting responsibility for themselves. Isn’t it better, to occasionally use humor to reflect how childish employees or our children sound? Assuming under normal circumstances we treat our kids and employees with respect and hold them to higher social standards than petulant, heartless, serially selfish, disrespectful Twitter twats.
All I ever hear when I’m out in public is how good, sweet and well behaved my 3 children are. Well, I also don’t sugar coat it when they’re acting demonstrative like when my 4-year-old son, little Arthur starts ordering his big sister to play what he wants to play. In these moments, I’ll say. “Chill out Little Hitler. Nobody’s interested in your shitty landscape drawings of the Rhine River.” Nobody likes being called “Little Hitler.” So, nickname shaming your kids into changing their behavior instead of unleashing the selective yelling voice works also. At the same time, if I called my son Little Hitler every time, he couldn’t sit still for story time and insisted on pushing the blankets off the bed instead. The sting of nickname shaming him would lose the implied, sarcastic aside intended meaning behind it. You know like when no name putz breath guests on CNN call President Trump Hitler. Really, Trump is the new Hitler? In what Inglorious Bastards 2? And no offense Eminem but make Nazi Germany great wasn’t his campaign slogan. Trump also lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership at Mar-A-Lago Slim on Facts Shady.
A Famous old school comic, Victor Borge said “The shortest distance between 2 people is laughter.” So, is it any wonder how close I am to my daughter? Knowing how our laugh count among ourselves for 7 years straight is through the roof. As the most beautiful laughs emanate from my pitch perfect daughter onward and upward to Comedy Clown Heaven and above. Lighting up heavy hearted clowns of yesteryear like the late great Joan Rivers, riffing on Michelle Obama’s new book with Lenny Bruce, Bill Hicks, Rodney, Redd Fox, Patrice O’Neal, Greg Geraldo and Don Rickles at the famed Mount Olympus Diner. Joan Rivers says. “No offense Patrice, but if you were Melania, would you seek out advice on how to be a 1st lady from Michelle Obama? Like, Melania planned on rocking the Kwanza themed decorations for Christmas. Or had to rely on Michelle for fashion tips once Fashion Police got terminated. No thanks to that backstabbing bitch Kathy Griffin. Can we talk? She campaigned for my job when I was in a coma. God showed me the footage from above. And boy has Kathy Griffin gone bat shit crazy over Trump. What was she thinking with that hair? Now, Kathy looks like Clifford in Chemo and Trans Chucky had a baby. Joan lives.