How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas two summers ago, with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing made lead singer Steven Tyler shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up, already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium-selling-out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me (without a microphone, Joe Perry, or a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor, either).”
There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell, with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole!”
And all he was doing was laughing for a long time, all the time, prior, while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank you very much.”
Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh, a throaty roar, that he beelined into his nursery rhymes prematurely, way ahead of schedule, to get the fuck out of dodge a hard 45 minutes into his set.
Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda (fairly up in the nosebleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket-fueled voice still managed to get under Zebra Print’s skin as the old-school long cowboy from Jersey projected a damning ‘you ain’t shit’ thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease’s general direction as he sang along with rockstar-blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”
Do It All Dad didn’t just piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English-dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only two minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out, in depleted, drained-already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.”
‘The other one’ being the gentile mute from Indiana whom his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love, this time (at least for the time being).
The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son, Art Show USA, to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face until he started to take up mainlining extra-strength Tylenol, again.
And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough, you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stitches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the first-in-line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad two options:
“Either A) Authorize the doc to use an anesthesia which would take twenty minutes to kick in, or B) To stitch up his son the spot, as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after Push 5000.
Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me, doc: how tough?”
Doc says, “One time, there was this black kid from Brooklyn.”
Do It All Dad says, “Sold already, Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights, for me to derive vicarious pride from ’till my last dying breath.”
But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease, exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution, too? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way, at times, from being a Stay-At-Home Dad and bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blastoff, already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?
What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again?
Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure-all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones to wear in his presence and would teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.