Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

And to all you do-gooders out there who practice the “I thought you should know” bullshit, you’re just a grown-up version of the tattletale from sixth grade that we all hated. That person who gives a friend bad news under the guise of “If I were you, I’d want to know” is a special kind of asshole. This is a power trip, a way for you to have dominion over other people’s feelings. You get to control them for a minute. Why not knock them down a wrung on the emotional ladder, so they can be as miserable as you are inside? At the same time, you get to elevate yourself by being holier than thou about me, a comedian who’s simply trying to get a laugh and actually made efforts to make sure no one’s feelings got hurt.

And, by the way, mission accomplished. I no longer coach her kids.

Another thing about all the parents at these events that drives me insane is that they’re always taking video of the kids.

In today’s culture kids can’t go three days without being photographed. I don’t know how good it’s going to be to have every event captured on iPhones. Family photos used to be an event in and of themselves, dragging the kids down to the Sears portrait studio in ill-fitting shirts and clip-on ties. Taking the photograph was a memory. I see parents now at every one of my kids’ events holding iPhones and iPads in front of their faces. It might be fun to look at those videos years down the road. Then again it might be used as “what-happened” footage in the 20/20 episode about them when they kill a bunch of nursing students. But it’s definitely bad for the parents. Just be there in the moment, instead of missing it by trying to capture it. That’s what your kid really wants. They want you to be paying attention.

Ironically, here’s a picture of the team getting a pep talk with Coach Carolla.

And last but never least, the government…

Like all things they get involved in, the government fucked this one up, too. Here I was simply trying to spend some time with my boy by coaching his basketball team, and here comes The Man looking over my shoulder.

On the day of Sonny’s first practice I signed into the Y, ready to coach like I’ve never coached before. Because I literally had never coached before. But, I assumed, they’re six, they’ll figure it out.

Before practice was about to start the woman who worked at the YMCA came up and asked me, “Did you get fingerprinted?” I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I said no. She replied, “Well, then you can’t coach. You need to be registered and fingerprinted.” I started arguing about how that’s unnecessary and took one of my many stands in the name of sanity.

This is not a star-trip thing. I just hate that we’re removing the part of us that has evolved to have common sense and make decisions. To distinguish between the guy who showed up with his whole family and the guy who showed up solo in the shitty box van. There needs to be some probable cause. If I were a molester or kidnapper, would I bring my wife and other kid with me to the practice? I’m not a pedophile, I’ve never been a pedophile and thus I don’t think I should be treated like a pedophile.

I went back and forth a couple of times until the chick got persnickety and said, “No prints, no coach,” and walked away. Sonny was excited all day for his first practice. He had literally been counting down the minutes. But I needed to make my point. I walked away, too. And when I turned, I got three looks: anger from Lynette, disappointment from Sonny and desperation that said “Don’t make me do this alone!” from Coach Mike.

I’d love to say I had a moment of clarity and softened my stubbornness, but that just ain’t me. I thought it was more important to make the point. Lynette took matters into her own hands, went over to the bitch with the clipboard and smoothed it over. I managed to assistant coach that day, but then avoided it for weeks in a principled protest against their bullshit policy.

Eventually, I couldn’t continue to fight the war on two fronts: against The Man at the Y and against Sonny and Lynette at home; family came first. I caved, drove over to the passport photo/notary public place and got the fingerprints done. And, as expected, it was a colossal pain in the ass.

Because when I say fingerprints, I mean all of them. I still have no idea why they needed all five fingers. Is it like I’m going to take a belt sander to my thumb, just so I can sneak into the Y and molest kids? Can’t it just be one finger, so you can connect me to my son? And I say five fingers, but I really mean ten because they need both hands. Because that’s what I do, I cut off my arm and rent it out to pedophiles.

I had to press my fingers on this glass-plate scanner, which, like all technology in my life, didn’t work properly. We started with the left thumb. But that one didn’t take. The Asian chick behind the counter said, “Are you sweaty?” I immediately got defensive, held out my hand and said, “No, touch them.” My left ring finger wouldn’t take either. I was incensed when the chick said, “We’ll get back to it.” Yeah, because God forbid we skip one out of ten. It got intimate at a certain point, when she had to hold my hand and roll my thumb. In many countries, we’d be engaged.

At the end of the whole ordeal she printed two copies of the report, one for me to supply to the YMCA and one for me to keep. As I turned to walk out, she said, “Wait, here’s your copy.” I told her I didn’t want it and walked away. I only wanted one for the pussy at the Y who’s afraid of getting sued. I don’t need pictures of my hands. I’m familiar with them. I know the back of my hands like the back of my hands. What could I possibly discover?

Not to mention, have we started to live for two hundred years? When did time stop mattering? Why do you think I have the time to sit at a fingerprint office, rolling my thumbs and mashing my palms onto glass plates? I resent the loss of time because the government is assuming that we’re all pedophiles who just haven’t been caught yet.

Natalia plays basketball, too, but her real sport is ice-skating. Now, I know this falls into the white-people problems category, but Natalia’s ice-skating unitard cost almost two hundred dollars. And that was half price. When Lynette told me how much it cost, I asked if she got it at the Caesar’s Palace gift shop. And that was just the unitard. I don’t even want to know how much the skates cost. I think if I find out, I’ll use them to slit my wrists.

What was most infuriating is that when I asked Lynette how much the unitard cost, I also asked her where she purchased it. She said she bought it at the skating rink. That’s like taking your car to the dealer to get your oil changed or getting hit with the fee at a strip club ATM. Stuff is always most expensive right next to where you use it. (By the way, unitard sounds like a mythical special-needs horse.)

I can look at the bright side, though. I am glad that Natalia’s into ice-skating and not ballet. When she was three, I warned Lynette that if I saw her taking Natalia to ballet lessons, I would fucking tackle her at the door. Everyone who does ballet ends up as a disaster. They’re anorexic, they have body dysmorphia and everyone who teaches ballet is a huge cunt. No one ever said, “My ballet teacher was a delight.” They’re all the chicks who wanted to be prima ballerinas, but put on a couple of extra pounds, washed out and then took that anger out on your daughter. I’m all for discipline and hard work, but ballet seems like torture.