Less Is Less

It’s weird being taller than my dad, especially when he’s constantly trying to make me feel less than I am, while doing his best to chip away at my surging self-esteem, one offensive slight at a time. “So, you didn’t get into the writing fellowship with Nickelodeon based on the meh strength of your American Dad spec script, Death of An Astronaut, whatever that means. Apparently, you weren’t good enough. You do remember taking 5 hours to complete your untimed SAT? By the time you finished your math section alone, your Hebrew name was up for Judicial Review and your smaller, brainer Jewish friends, already declared their Bio major’s sophomore year in college at Washington University.”

What’s weirder is when your dad adopts that same measured, ball tickle free Emoji love when discussing future prospects regarding your own son’s future basketball career. “Well, you’ll find out soon enough if he’s a mediocre talent or not. Let’s just hope he doesn’t turn into a waste of height like yourself, who would get his knock kneed putzy knees stuck in trees if he possessed the coordination and agility to climb past 2 knots on the ropes in elementary school or managed to sit Indian Style without tipping over like a wheelbarrow full of your putzy DNA with missing wheels on it.”

How do I handle my dad trying to tear down my MOJO risin since I starting to puruse laugh yanker love with such breathless fury, almost 14 years ago? I forgive him, because he most likely blames my unplanned birth, I’m assuming, for his accelerated baldness in his twenties, when he wasn’t making bank as a VP of Sales until he turned 40 yet. Plus, his father wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type either, who called my father a moron while tutoring him in Calculus. And my father is good enough with numbers to help bang out our mortgage in Westchester growing up based on his poker winnings alone. And I still count with my fingers for simple arithmetic and have to Google how many Zeros are in a trillion. Daughter says, “Are you financially illiterate? Is that why you call yourself a degenerate, Half Heeb Crazy Jew because you have to ask Alexa how many zeros are in a trillion? I say, “I told papa to invest in Google when it first became available. Plus, I predicted that Trumpy Poo would beat Hillary Hammer Time Cankles by a patriot made landslide. Plus, comedians excel at making unseen connections, so I’m better at connecting dots than most and I know how to predict winning bets.”

Daughter says, “Is that why you decided to triple down on being you and wrote 3 more books after mommy said you were on the verge of homelessness if you plowed forward to write even one, especially if you gave me the common cold through COVID? I say, “I’m just doing my best to get paid for doing me like Kevin Smith recommends. And like my favorite Peloton riding instructor, Olivia says, “Whatever you are doing now is a steppingstone to better things in your life like scoring book publishing deals for all 3 of new laugh yanker books, Waste Of Height Really Short Stories, United We Laugh and Koshertarian Comedians, with only 2 more last minute chapter additions to go, Vacation From Kosher and In Mosey’s Dream, Challah, for plugging ultra-punchy, schtick heavy books long time, all the time, Challah, thank you very much. Then, we can celebrate each huge win by taking you and your 2 brothers out to “Big City”, to celebrate in style.”

Daughter says, “You celebrate with me first, especially after you score a publishing deal for Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. Without me around to look after my brothers, you’d be screwed daddy. I say, “That’s what Basherts are for. Now, do your French homework, and Google Erich Rohmer films we can start watching together over your morning smoothies once were done watching the second season of a Never Have I Ever, thought I’d love my year without beer as much as this. I want you speaking French beautifully, so you can start ordering me first growth burgundies when we celebrate your 13th birthday in France, Oo, La, La Supreme” without Daddy getting any hate speech stares in the process because I have to defer to my daughter for ordering in high end French only.”

Daughter says, “No problem Do It All Dad, can’t wait for you to prove how you’re the best of the rest and why less is less. And Do It All Dad don’t play that, Challah. Thanks for inspiring me to continue practice doing me all the way Daddy; very, very, very much.” I said very, three times in honor of each book widely succeeding, not that you need it, but less is less, and you deserve the world daddy and all its cake to, especially now that you’re not drinking beer anymore on the Peloton falling in love with GNR riding playlists with Oliva on your mind, who does look like a prettier version, of your old girlfriend, Summer, Daddy. What, you’re not the only one who can make unsee connections over here. You nicknamed me Billon Dollar Brain at 10 years old for a reason, remember? Hey Daddy, remember when I found the pile of colored cue cards in your desk drawer that had all these printed out, sweet messages cut out and glued on by mommy, when she was still into you, that had cute stickers on them. One of them said, “I love how you kiss Blondie. Who’s Blondie again? I say, “Easier on the eyes than the Ramones, next question.”

Michael Kornbluth