Do It All Dads Cook

Do It All Dad Year is a dad doing everything. Do it All Dads cook. Do It All Dads do dishes. Do It All Dads even do all-star dish reviews, on his father son, dish review show, Better Than Boobie. Do It All Dads host a podcast, trying to make the universe laugh for a living. Do It All Dads self-publish books, with no guaranteed payday in sight. Do It All Dads record a comedy album from home and sell it on I-Tunes to make weird, weak Howard Stern jealous. Do It All Dad even filld out his own Father’s Day card to let his wife off the hook. Because she works evenings at the NICU, revitalizing blue faced, newborn babies, which me makes this stay at home comedian/book author/retired Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host feel like a total self-absorbed narcissist, because all I check for is more retweets.

Joy is your daughter’s 2nd grade teacher emoting about your mystery reader performance in class, insisting you should be hosting your own kids show already. Fine, I added the already. Comedic exaggeration 101, you can do it to. You’re welcome.

Joy is your son insisting the people in your modern made, hipster motel in Vermont took a peak at your book, left there intentionally by your bedside, saying, “I saw a finger mark on it dada. They totally took a peak dada.”

Joy is self-publishing your books and your kids stacking their bookshelves with them to showcase, compared to your parents who hide your published short stories from Fires and Knives in the bar because all their friends are Jewish who don’t drink hard alcohol or old school bottles of Smirnoff refilled with H20 tap water, regardless of it’s from New York state or not. So the short stories like Anthony Bourdain Rips My Frozen Lunch Apart get less touches than a bible in a bath house colony in Provincetown.

Joy is getting published by the Good Men Project 22 times in a year, despite it still not securing my good guy, non-divisive status and having them take down your post Disorder In the Doll House without a warning, only to make that chapter your opening one in Do It All Dad Jokes.

Joy is recordijg a comedy album Resist This from your home sweet home, consisting of your greatest hits from the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and getting your old sales boss to rave about it, giving you LMAO reviews in return.

Joy is developing a strong, later in life friendship with a man who treats you like a hungry winner, instead of a blood related brother, who tries to kick you while you’re down acting like your down and out permanently.

Joy is getting motivated to do a Ted Talk, after seeing an Obama clone disciple who claims all technology is racist, boring you to near death in the process. Imagine that Ted Talks having a Q&A session? Are the pink pocket rockets vibrators sold in the non-gentrified part in Harlem, racist, for making the assumption, they’re superior to the Lexington Steele drill series outie five thousands?

How else would I define my do it all dad year?

I’d define it as the year I served Lady Laugh with all my punchy, fighting might, intent on pleasing his wife and his 3 fuss free kids most of the time in the process.

The say, “gratitude is a sign of noble souls.” And when you don’t bring home the bacon for 3 year straight, you tend to look in deep and give thanks and praises for the best of what’s around.

During my do it all dad year, I aborted my Kosher diet for vegetarianism, excluding fish filets at McDonalds’ and smoked salmon scramble if I want to reward myself for a stronger writing week than usual.

My Do It All Dad Year has revolved my life around marrying my dream of becoming a best-selling author and talent represented comedian already, while getting paid to spend more time with my kids, to rise from slug to stud, as the voice behind the remote work revolution. Still working on the paid part and brining home more than veggie bacon for my kids.

Joy is freedom to pursue the work you want to do. But that freedom isn’t made possible without investors in you, believers in you, super angel investors in you, Sugar Mama’s like Anis Nin was for Henry Miller during his Paris hooking, STD snagging years.

Joy is those you love invested and rooting for your success in what you want to achieve.

Stay at home dads are sheltered bums, until I start bringing home money, and not the veggie kind, I don’t blame the prognosis.

Joy is growing closer to my children.

Joy is getting laughs and more yummy dances from my kids in celebration of another all-star do it dad dish creation.

Joy is getting closer to my kids through blasting old school hair metal and hip-hop classic records at home when mama’s at work not to complain about it, favoring more mellow strummings, of Indie Rock bands like Petrified Forrest instead.

Joy is more dance contests galore, your kids making up their own version of act out Charade Mad Libs, and doing tackle basketball upstairs, doing drawing contests and having your son’s Iron Man creation make your illustration look lifeless slow in comparison.

Joy is going on an adventurous road trip up to Woodstock to, treck through a swimming hole, which was more rugged intense to do with 2 kids and a newborn in hand than anticipated.

Joy is throwing your daughter around the pool this summer, never wanting the shrieks of joy to end.

Joy is teaching your kid’s about Solomon’s book of proverbs instead attending a synagogue you can’t afford yet.

Joy is more typhoon swirls in the pool this summer with my newborn and freaking out the locals, with breaking baby, part 2222222222222.

Joy is yucking it up with my kids with my phone nowhere near in sight.


Joy is my kids heckling the Internet for going out already and my youngest son throwing his sock at the TV, yelling, “Gevalt, gevalt.”

Joy is your kids getting to know you, so they discourage you from pursuing a writer job in New Jersey because it’s such a “stinky schlep”, and you won’t be able to do the writing you wanted anyway.

Joy is banging out a new blog and podcast and being able to feel job satisfaction while hanging out with your 3 kids later to enjoy the fruits of your laugh producing labor.

Joy is getting my kids to laugh at how whiny they sound.

Joy is getting more yummy dances from my kids after sampling another Do It All Dad Hit Creation.

Joy is getting my kids to laugh at how loosey, goosey dad, is compared to serious, all work, no play dad on Adderall.

Joy is more smiles from kids in the window.

Joy is hugs from my kids behind me.

Joy is getting out of your head.

Joy is playing tackle nerf basketball with your son and daughter and relishing them kicking your ass as a team, especially with your sister dunking with big time resounding authority for attacking the nerf rim with rip roaring authority every time.

Joy is pitching your daughter whiffle balls in your garden and having her go yard 10 times in a row earning the new nickname 10 Homer Daily.

Joy is my sons not outgrowing their love of shoulder rides on top of Dada yet. And covering my ears, before saying, “Earmuffs, Dada.”

Joy is your kids expressing themselves creatively, which they learn from their dads, more so than moms. Because moms are usually the homemaker, disciplinarians, types. Sorry, I didn’t make up the rules, and I wear both hats, vagina hat, not included, so f off.

Joy is the beautiful hum my kids make playing imaginary teacher, otherwise known as mom and honey, which fills the house with pure blasting life boy.

Joy is the moment before you change your son’s nappy and he says, “Pebble Poo Rock Or All Out Yuck?”

Joy is tripling down on your own brand of specialness, with your kids by side till you cross the funny man finish line into funny man employment land, and your kids and wife, your home team, chant in your ear,
“ I knew you would do it, daddy, never doubted your ability to rise from slug to paid stud for a second.”

Joy is raising fearless artists, like my daughter performing in Little Mermaid Play when she couldn’t even read yet, despite my wife’s protests. Wife says, “Acting camp, she can’t even read yet.” My reply? “Will watch Rocky 2 with her again for pointers.”

Joy is my son getting rave reviews during his art show in pre-k, proving talent is never ambiguous. When grown blue collar, men who look like they make a good living, not like your typical office drone putz, no offense. And they’ll say, “Arthur’s got talent.”

Joy is seeing your kid start the car for you and letting his big sister dress him without fussing.

Joy is your son requesting more Beach Boys or Jimmy in the car or rocking hard to Metallica’s Moth into the Flame in the car, with rambunctious, unsurpassed joy that if recorded would go viral.

Joy is your son Art Show USA dancing up a storm at my wife’s best friend wedding, pulling off his shirt like Michael Jackson with the buttons popping off but looking less showy forced about it.

Joy is my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo turn heads, playing the harmonica in the middle of DiCicco’s, Italian grocery store with the best beer selectin of all time. You’re welcome again.

Joy is my son letting daddy go long, doing jokes at TD Bank again because he knows this is what daddy does to keep his spirits afloat as a still non reppes, stay at home comedian dad, with no staff writer job offers or commercial auditions in sight because I’ve haven’t finished my Do It All Dad Ted Talk on how controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great, so my video can’t go viral just yet.

Joy is listening to Frank on Vinyl and having your kids devour your homemade penne vodka, minus the Kettle one vodka made one of old, knowing, childhood is fleeting, so you soak in another yummy dance in your honor, because every other nosh they take after is a win, win.

Michael Kornbluth