“Daddy, what are your Gap Years? I say. “The best times and worst of times.” Daughter replies. “Was the worst time, when Baba called you pathetic? Papa not calling you on your 40th birthday or Mama minimizing your comedy appeal to Baptist fundamentalists on Twitter and WordPress?”
Unlike mothers on maternity leave. I didn’t have a stable career waiting for me to return. So I decided to assume ownership of my writing career and author a book about falling for fatherhood, working remote and controlling my kids through comedy. Which I promote in my Do It All Dad Year Podcast as a means to make our kids great again. Does controlling our kids through comedy sound too aggressively nationalistic for you? Then, you’re a humorless twat and your dad failed you miserably. Join the club.
I’ll admit. It’s pretty depressing to hear constant updates about how unemployment in America is at a 45 year low. Knowing, I’ve graduated from a top communication school in the country. Written for Viacom twice, had food fiction published in England and amassed more than 5000 connections on LinkedIn from 15 plus years of new business development centric jobs mostly within the IT staffing industry with the Creative Group at Robert Half most recently. I used to get jobs for UX Designers and Social Media Community at twice their previous salary yet I can’t even score an interview for myself these days. Because gap years aren’t a good look on white privileged men, especially in these times. I don’t care how desperate companies are for qualified help these days. Mom was just in town. She says. I didn’t think Trump would boost the economy. But I read in the NY Times how they’re not even conducting background checks on ex-cons anymore. So why the fuck can’t you get a job again? I hate to make excuses. So I won’t. But being deemed a bearded stay at home shemale freak of the most deplorable order, especially considering my professed support of President Trump, hasn’t persuaded any Creative Directors to look at my 8 year old copywriting portfolio just yet.
But seriously, during my gap years I’ve learned how much I hate sore losers. Who remain hostage to past slights. Who are total strangers to self-awareness necessary for self-improvement. Like Tony Robbins says, either you A) Play a victim and think poor, poor, pitiful me. Or B) Move forward in life with the attitude of, setbacks are temporary, it doesn’t define me and sometimes the biggest setbacks can serve to be the greatest kick in the butt to kick your real love based career obsession into hyperspeed. Not his exact words but you get the gist. I don’t think Tony Robbins is one to obsess over the exact quoting of others either. Have you seen his doc on Netflix? I thought I dropped F Bombs for emphasis. Now, I’m thinking of the scene from Entourage when Dice scores the pilot with Johnny Drama for Johnny’s Banana’s and says. “Now Johnny, we do the fucking.” Dice still rules.
So being honest with my gap year repellent resume. And considering the fact Charles Bukowski is my role model, being no stranger to his fair share of gaps years between paying factory jobs before getting settled at the Post Office. I’ve decided to bet it all on the muse and myself. The bullpens of various IT agency sales offices were my post office and now it’s time to put my comedic stamp on the world of parenting books or die a corporate, unoriginal, contented, unimaginative, stiff for hire forever.
Bukowski was correct, writing is the only good fight. And most men are finished at 26 with kids, a mortgage and settled in profession to keep a roof over the head of their family’s American dream. Who must sell their boss on the impression they exist to please them, maximize profit and have their time exploited for all it’s worth. At 42, I’ve survived my pain period of exclusion only to emerge stronger, tougher and funnier than ever. Hellbent on being heard despite Twitter’s attempt to censor my off the cuff personality. But I won’t bitch about it. That’s why I’ve decided to write my book because only my book editor can censor me now. Thinking small never would’ve got me to where am I now. To the point where my younger brothers sulks every holiday, whenever I bring up a story about Paul Mooney telling me “I hear you’re funny” after introducing myself for a callback audition for his sketch comedy show in Harlem.
My gap years has broken my pothead addicted binge mentality for good. My gap years have brought morning prayer into my life. Where I give thanks and praises. Despite me straining to emote about my wife more than I’d like because my gap years have tested her patience in bankrolling my dreams of making it as a writer provider podcaster for our family of 5. I get it. My gaps years have lead to me getting published again on someplace besides my own blog. Breaking my self-publishing streak, which is a pleasant change of pace. My gap years have shown who my fake news friends are. Who get off from kicking you when you’re down but not out.
My gap years have given birth to a real life practicing pescatarian comedian. My gap years have shown what little regard my younger brother and parents have for do it all dads like myself. Who’ve bet it all on my God given ability to excel in the language art of comedy better than most. My gap years have shown what I’m fighting for is self-respect. My gap years have shown I’m fighting not for another cubicle job, but for freedom to be a stay at home comedian dad podcast host author bigwig. That my best selling parenting book Stay At Comedian will afford me the opportunity to do.
My gaps years have shown me how I hate those who don’t respect salesmanship, showmanship, the close, our cops, military, law and order and good old fashioned hustle.
My gap years have shown me I hate my liberal secular Jewish brethren who deride President Trump because they’re no name hacks in the bosom of life at large. And not nearly prestigious enough to afford a home in a building President Trump owns or score a retweet if their life depended on it. Let alone, work for free for the betterment and advancement of his fellow Americans.
God bless my gap years. It’s put me in touch with the man I’m destined to be. Not some belittling, critic cynic, mush brained, boring hack who think’s he’s cool because he listens to Rakim. Who thinks drinking Grey Goose bottle service is a pathway to empowered, fun filled enlightenment.
No, my gaps years have told me I want to be a book author podcast giant. Who can teach Gen X Dads how to control their kids with comedy. So we can make our kids great again. Who won’t suffer from a psychotic breakdown even as they turn 70 and start cashing in their Social Security Checks. Who were dumb enough to side with her on the wrong side of history.
My gap years have proved to me I will not be raising whiners, complainers, drug addict dependent, hysterical, brainwashed, flesh obsessed, mock outrage addicted, fake news hypocritical no friends of color losers. No, my gap years have shown me how I’ll succeed in raising strong, self-reliant, drug free, petty free leaders. Who value loyalty, hard work, sacrifice and assuming ownership of their happiness and destiny through following my lead. Refusing to beg for interviews with fake feminist HR Humpback dwellers relegated to dreamless boiler rooms below Penn Station because you triple down on yourself to make a living without their crummy, paltry handouts is a great place to start.