My wife says, “No man is ever ready for fatherhood.” I rely. “You should be the next the Chief Marketing Officer for Planned Parenthood.” But seriously, I didn’t plan for fatherhood. I’ll never forget my girlfriend, now wife sitting me down on our bed in our one-bedroom apartment in Astoria, NY. She says. “I’m pregnant” with a hint of subdued joyous, teary trepidation. Because we hadn’t even gotten married yet. I compose myself and think. “Be firm, tell Natalia, it’s her own choice but then push for the abortion and don’t be a pussy about it.” I couldn’t order the premature hit on my own flesh and blood. It felt wrong on every level. And God has showered me with endless love filled blessings in the form of 3 out of this world, can’t believe their real, too good to be true children ever since.
Reality is, I explored the issue of abortion in a screenplay I wrote in Park Slope prior, Brooklyn Blogger, previously called Juno Does Williamsburg. I wanted to write the funniest, independent, NC17 parody ever made. But the intended playful romp about Juno moving to Williamsburg and banging every hipster in sight to recapture her lost fountain of youth after giving her baby up for adoption developed into a tale of regret, emptiness and longing I never in a million years anticipated prior. There’s one scene. Where Juno, now known as Maya the Blogger, has a conversation about abortion with her sultry, oversexed, bi-sexual bud, Titiana, at a Polish sausage shop she works at in Greenpoint, NY. Titiana says “A Fetus can’t sing, dance, laugh or kill at the Comedy Cellar, so what kind of life is that?” Also understand, Titiana was able to sound more cavalier about abortion than most because she’s already had 7 abortions prior, only to get pregnant again. Which prompts a line by her caustic, firebrand mother to blurt with extreme disdain “Isn’t eight enough Titiana?”
I dated a girl in LA, when I 1st moved out there, who had major issues as my father would say. She looked like a paler, Loraine Bracco, you know Dr. Melfie from the Sopranos, minus the luscious, mountable melons on top and darker, Sicilian, super inviting, inhalable legs below. I’m a sexually repressed, slut in a straight jacket father of 3, I know. But the character Maya, the Blogger, who gave her kid up for adoption, has all the sex in the world, and it never fulfills her empty void inside. So, when my girlfriend, now wife, told me out of nowhere, she was pregnant. I was still a wannabe headlining standup comedian. Obviously, not too much has changed in my life. But it has, because when my book Stay at Home Comedian becomes a hit, snags me an agent and books me for a worldwide promotion tour, with some accompanying standup gigs. Where I no longer have to be a signer upper open miker, thank God. I’ll be doing it to profit from all my hard work for the overall betterment of my family, not for pure show off ego enlargement, purposes alone. And to pay back my wife, my partner in adversity and prosperity. For tripling down in her faith in me becoming the big time me, I always believed and promised to be.
Most wives would’ve cut their losses with me ages ago. Despite whatever long term yields, my girlfriend now wife envisioned in me when we used to live in Park Slope, 12 years ago after my 30 Rock spec made me a Recommended Writer on TV Writer.com. Which was ages ago, back when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Hey, Lena, I got your next book idea for you. It’s a teen graphic novel serious called, Bi-Curious George. It’s for sexually confused, hipster spawn, reared in Brooklyn on Lou Reed Records. You don’t like me making fun of Lena Dunham, do you hipster hack book sales clerk in Cold Springs, NY, do you? Move on, you’re not my target demographic. My 20-month-old son exudes more sophisticated grace in his avocado dumps than you do. Especially, when you strain to come off as anything more than a witless, furry browed, millennial mouskeeter hobbit baby resister, loser of the most unenviable, untweetable order. Obviously, fathering 3 fuss free, pitch perfect children doesn’t eradicate your depths of rage. Still, directed at any zero personality fuck, who just because he wears glasses, works at a book store, or comes up to my hip, thinks his quizzical, beady, Marcon Marcon cat update swooning eyes will trip my hard earned, surging MOJO in any form whatsoever. Knowing none of these putz faces like this blah brained jerkoff, could make a living an as IT headhunter past week 1. Let alone sell their way into secure employment throughout a post 911 recession because being a professional new biz development cold caller for a living, doesn’t engender, holier than now, my shit doesn’t stink, supreme entitlement issues but I digress.
So, fatherhood will make me a bigger prick than ever? But now, I’ll have no freedom to jet off to Vegas whenever or roll on E in Manhattan all weekend for the fun of it. You better start getting to the sizzling steak fajita part. Before I lose interest all together in giving 2 shits what a no name comedian to me has to say about the wonders of fatherhood. Enlighten me fast on what I’m missing out on so bad that makes my life in comparison a meaningless, empty jumble of friendship deepening relationships in Manhattan from people of all walks of life. Who are too busy having fun and closing deals and making the big bucks to support a dreamy, freedom maximizing lifestyle to even bother with giving up my weekends for the next 20 years for children in the 1st place.
Last time I checked, I’m not a loser with no friends left because I’m an arrogant, bitter, no represented, comedian writer who never made it in Hollywood as a staff writer of any kind. Who you like to decry and reduce to calling mere rape wood as a mere cop out for not making it out there and for having your dad pay for the airfare as you flew back east a dejected loser from the city of angels with your head in between your legs. Who from what I hear almost died from doing crystal meth, confusing it for cocaine. Who even some dumb fuck extra on Breaking Bad would the know the difference. So please, in the name of God, stop raping my ears with more dated Lena Dunham, hipster jokes, that come off more dated than Yiddish and more sour than Michelle Obama’s Sour Lemonade Book Tour, please. Why is my life such an impact-less, meaningless, starless, empty hearted house of horrors without children in my life to light up my world like no other? What’s in Fatherhood for me, that I can’t get nursing a six pack of IPA’s on a Thursday night with my Asian, Tightcoochie twins 1 and 2? Who I swiped over to my pad 2 seconds ago to watch Crazy, Rich, Asians with. Before I get me so horny with the Tightcoochie twins. As they walk out stress knots in my back at the same time because their combined weight is still less than your wife? Well if you phrase it that way.
But seriously, I can’t tell you they serve beer in hell, neg loving, condom pack tearing through Tucker Max disciple, what’s in fatherhood for you? But I can tell with outsized feeling what fatherhood’s had in store for me.
3 best friends, I never had outside of their mother of course. Sure, I had party buds, groomsmen, work associates, who came to my bringer shows when I did standup in Manhattan. But I define a true friend like my wife as a loving, generous, giving soul. Who starts working nights to spend more time at home with the kids in order for her husband to exercise his demons on the keyboard. So he can become the writer, funny man, comedian provider, he’s always wanted to be.
3 kids later, only 1 being planned, obviously, this drive for success has become more ferocious and unstoppable than ever. I just got 3 posts republished on the Good Men Project. Got 17 more pieces accepted for future release. And for all the good guy posturing, of so called, caring, heart of gold dudes from my past. Who I used to consider friends from either work or college, are engulfed now with self-pitying jealousy. Swallowing up their inflamed pussy selves whole. Knowing they’ve lost the high moral ground to look down on me any longer, since my extended stretch of becoming of an unemployed stay at home dad began 3 years ago. After I got fired from the man after Robert Half now that I’m in the midst of hot streak again. You all know who you are. Your silence speaks volumes about your biter pussy, artless, delusional hack selves. Deal with it. One more thing, you’re the crazy idiot for thinking you’re smarter than a President. Who wouldn’t even deem you good enough to clean his gold platted shitters in Trump Tower.
My old sales boss owner in Manhattan Beach, California, would constantly pound in our craniums, the mantra, “Innovate or die.” Now I’m more obsessed than ever with beating the man, by writing my family out of poverty into the big time. With my future bestselling book, Stay At Home Comedian. Changing the way Gen X men view fatherhood today while also helping teach new time dads how controlling our kids through comedy can make our kids great again. Because of the socialization, give and take, ball busting approach minus the Baby Boomer outright sheer malice undercurrent to it.
David Ogilvy famous ad man, who bought a freaking castle in France, said “Creativity can solve any problem.” So, gap years for white men of privilege isn’t a good look in today’s times. Plus, before I suck up my pride again and contend with comments from HR like: “I hear testosterone amounts are lower for stay at home dads. Before I reply with “, But we haven’t discussed hard numbers yet.” Before we go down that passionless, road, I must be finish strong with my book Stay at Home Comedian and go for the knockout kill. Make the most of what’s around while making more clear sense than Dave Matthews in the process on my office desk day dreaming.
I don’t have grandparents next door on either side. I don’t have uncles who live close by. Who would lift a finger to help with my 3 kids anyway. So called friends, can’t even congratulate my recent success accomplishment on the Good Men Project website because they hate how my own self-belief materialized into good in spite of their bitchy, petty, starless, lives in comparison. Fuck them. Either you care about me making it big time for me and my family or you don’t. Harlem’s favorite son, James Baldwin was correct. Pursuing your passion no matter the cost, truly gives you an “intimate knowledge of the ugliness in us, lurking from within.”
Still, interested in what’s in store for Fatherhood? Learning older, new friends in life, more comfortable in their own skin. Not pretending to be something they aren’t because actions speak louder than words showcase what real class and kindness is. By offering you sincere, heartfelt, responsive praise flowered in your direction. Who give off the impression they’re are genuinely excited for the trajectory of your future moving forward.
So what’s in fatherhood for me you, say? How about the opportunity to outshine your father for starters? Who questions in flippant disgust after the birth of your 1st child “I don’t know how we’re even related.” How about the opportunity to get published again and snag a lit agent. So in Arizona this February over dinner you can say, “Hey dad, you know who doesn’t mind hearing my fucking opinions on politics. How about Penguin books and 200,000 thousand advance for starters?”
Dream bigger, daddy. Those are words from my 1st born Singing Rose Matilda Kornbluth. She’s my deltoids dawn consigliere, Small Wonder and Punky Brewster all wrapped into one. “Matilda, Grandparent Bad Manners, is a strong tile, right? Total winner, dada, all the way”, she says with grace loaded charm.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity, to have your son wake up in the morning, and say “Daddy where are you? And end up feeling like the most cherished center of this perfect boy’s universe. Who calls for you 1st thing in the morning, knowing you’re the 1st thing on his precious, genius mind. Not sold yet?
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity for your 20-month-old son to play with your keys while you pump the gas. Only for him to unlock the door with the remote attached to the key chain. So, you can open the door and take in his love supreme gaze. Which screams I can’t get enough of you Dada. Thanks for playing a big part, in me hitting the genetic lotto. And for whenever we go to Stop and Shop, Trader Joes, the local farm, Staples or bakery, to always make sweet laughter fill the air.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity for your daughter to hug you at the dinner table with mama at work, proclaiming? “Daddy, I never want this hug to end.” Only after she sets the mood prior, with “Daddy, I know you really want to be a comedian, but can’t you be a pizza maker in heaven instead.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about reading your published piece in the Good Men Project about your son Arthur Morison Kornbluth, detailing, all of his killer nickname creations like Art Show, and Gimmel Be Good. Declaring with extreme, absolute glee” They’re on the Internet forever now kid.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to play hooky as an adult on a work week Friday and take all 3 of your kids to Manhattan for a big city adventure? To give thanks and praises to God in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral despite raising my kids Jewish. How about the opportunity to teach your kids the importance of addressing God and showcasing your gratitude, especially in my 3 kids’ case, because they got looks, humor and physical ability. I state. “You 3 were born to be leader’s kids and to turn others into ones also. So don’t be an abusive, bullying asshole about it in the process like an overrated, yuck personified, bitchy Jim Acosta clone for a living. Please, I implore you. I will have failed as a father if you regress into such a worthless, piece of ANTIFA poo otherwise.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about getting all 3 of your kids out of Rockefeller Plaza alive in one piece with sure footed ease. Navigating your 3 kids to calmer ground through midtown traffic 1 week before Christmas, in a big foot stroller no less. Only for your daughter to sip on a Gatorade and then compliment you with, “Daddy, you’re really good at being a New Yorker.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to make seltzer-based Shirley Temples with your kids on a Friday night? Blasting Van Halen on Vinyl. Reliving your age of innocence in far superior, hit puberty by now, Thank God glory.
What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to pitch whiffle ball to your daughter outside your house? And watch her crush 10 homers against the front of your home sweet home. As she rides the bull on top of an old school yellow whiffle bat in a blaze of glory.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about taking your daughter to see Billy Joel at the Garden? Only for your mom to reveal her lameness in the process. Stating, “Make sure my granddaughter wears ear plugs for the show. You’d think I was taking her to see Metallica compared to Billy Joel. Who sounds more like eighties lullaby music for Long Island Republicans in comparison.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about making your 20-month son release pure shrieks of unmatched, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this world joy? Whenever your head comes crashing down on to his midsection. As you declare with ultra playful authority, “Falling Putzy Apple Tree, part threeee.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about my kids getting a bunch of random inanimate objects to give this do it all dad over here a massage on a Saturday night out of the blue? Giving daddy a shin rub with a motorized rubber ducky I got for comedic material to be mined later.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about watching the Knicks on your phone show some promise for the future for once? With your 20-month-old son lying next to you in bed. As your buoyant son states, with eye dancing, emphatic glee, “ball, ball.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about your daughter singing Ring of Fire on cue by Johnny Cash in front of your in laws? Knowing, your snooty, English mother in law despite growing up in Manchester, sharing a bucket for number two’s. Can’t front in her typical, pouty, passive aggressive manner and state. “Well at 7, mommy sang Kyle Minogue in Australia. No, she didn’t. She was slopping it up in the mud with her imaginary Andy Pandey Tree in the back of your house in Australia. When she wasn’t ducking for cover, the next time you threw knives at your husbands head again. Because you couldn’t deal with being a stay at home, wobbly mom in Australia with a pool, prawns the size of whales and avocadoes the size of hand grenades.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Your son hugging you out of nowhere, because he feels you ache inside from a huge emotional disconnect you feel from your own father after another horror show visit back east. Where he refused to take his fucking shoes off at your daughter’s 6th birthday party. Making it all about his lackluster, overestimated sense of esteem presence again.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Calls for more shoulder rides, shoulder rides, more waives from the window, more requests for games of MadLibs, more Goldberg episodes on Hulu. Showing your kids how Nintendo raised daddy more than Papa did.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Getting up earlier to do work most important to you.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Revealing the sulky bitch your younger sibling is whenever he’s forced to celebrate a holiday with your child rich family.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Your 1st born daughter sticking up for you, like Drago’s son does for his Dad in Creed 2. At 4, my daughter says, “Daddy, I’ll kill Uncle John if he doesn’t show up to your funeral.”
What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about the shot to go from Hendrix to Mahler and become reincarnated in the mold of a classically trained baby like Randy Rhodes and Eddie Van Halen wrapped into one. As you use your air guitar appendage, 20-month-old son as an air guitar to Running with The Devil again and again.
What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about your children hugging American flags in the street out of pure love for their country without dad forcing them to do it? Only to illuminate the real deplorable being the grandparents who don’t even acknowledge those texted photos in return because they’re retired in Arizona in a gated community. So they’re obviously anti-borders in the 1st place.
What’s in Fatherhood for me? Your children stroking your beard at night and loving you so much to the point where they act like smelling your arm pits with your shirt on is the greatest thing since commercial free Cloud TV.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about getting your TV writing break. Which was 12 years in the making with VH1 Classic in Manhattan. While looking after your daughter as a stay at home dad with no support network in sight. Only to whip your 3-year daughter at home in your apartment. Whizzing her around in soul tantalizing delight to Lita Ford’s Kiss Me Deadly video. Playing on the America’s Hard 100 marathon which you wrote all the host intros for. Performing the role of Hair Metal Comedian Historian for the ages.
What’s in fatherhood for me? The golden opportunity to raise, better, sweeter, funnier, kinder, more compassionate kick ass soul rebels with far less duppy, evil spirits to conquer in the process.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Daddy, how do you spell I love you?