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

The kiddie interruption thing has happened to us. Lynette and I have been going at it when the kids started banging on the door while we were banging on the bed. When I shout, “Come back in a minute!” Sonny usually walks away, but Natalia keeps knocking and giving her list of demands. I think she’s more aware of Mommy and Daddy’s special time. Once, when she was just a little under five, I told her to go play because Mommy and Daddy needed some “private time.” She replied, “Mommy’s gonna look at Daddy’s privates?” I thought, “Damn, she figured it out.”

At the same time, I’ve got to admit as a guy you can use this to your advantage. If you know the kids are home and awake you can tell the wife, “Hey, we just have time for a quickie. I mean, usually I’m Sting with the hours-long tantric sex. There’s some sitar, a lot of oral. But the kids are in the other room watching Dora, so I’m not going to take my shoes off and I’ll just put my TV dinner on your back. Cool?”

I’ve tinkered with the idea of an app that creates the sound of a child knocking on the door so guys can go into hyper-drive and just finish up quick. Just set it on the nightstand before hitting the sheets and set the countdown clock.

Of course, when it comes to sex, there is a big difference between men and women. Women care about circumstance and atmosphere. Men don’t. We’re mechanical. There are sex dolls for guys. There’s no version of that for women. Women need to be in the mood. The wife can’t get into it when she can hear the kids downstairs. For guys, having the kids downstairs watching Barney just lets us know that it’s game on. That’s a half hour we know we’re able to bang.

Having kids has messed with the most intimate relationship I have, with my own hand. Not in quantity, but in quality. I always thought that when I got married and had kids I would cut back on the beating off. I assumed having a wife to have sex with and kids running around, especially a daughter, would throw a wet blanket on the whole activity. Not so. In fact, I’ve probably doubled down on the jacking off.

As I said, my house is a beehive of activity with nannies chasing kids, gardeners blowing leaves and maids running vacuums. But every once in a while I find myself alone and have the following conversation: “Hey, dick?” “Yeah, Adam?” “You ready to party?” “Let me check with the balls. But they’re like lunchmeat, they’re always ready.” I should rename my dick Andy Dick, because it’s always down to party.

So I’m alone with a magical box containing two hundred and thirty-five thousand hours of pornography from across the globe and throughout time. I could spend the rest of my life looking at it, and believe me I’m trying, and still not see it all. It’s a wonderwall of debauchery — anal, interracial, vintage, German-stump porn — whatever you’re into, it’s there for you.

Sorry, fellas, for outing us, but ladies, if you ever get this call on your cell phone, you know your guy is ready to have at himself. “Hey, honey, just checking in. Where are you?” We usually don’t give a shit. But now we want the GPS coordinates and approximate travel speed. We’re triangulating your position to maximize beat-off time. “At the mall? Huh. Nearby mall or the faraway mall? Just curious. Just curious… oh, you just got there? Good. Take your time. Relax. Try out that massaging chair at the Brookstone. You deserve it. Don’t rush home. But when you do leave, just give me a call… so I know you’re safe. In fact, just let it ring once and then hang up. And then as you’re pulling up the driveway just give a toot-toot on the horn so I know you’re home.” We actually want to know when you’re pulling in the driveway so we can finish pulling on our penis and pull up our pants.

So alone with the porn-u-copia, you start having at yourself and god does the time fly. Seasons are changing outside the window. Fall turns to winter, like in a movie where calendar pages are flying away. Your pubes go gray.

When I finish with this spirited session, I’m immediately disgusted with myself. I’m in my refractory period, thinking, “Never again. What’s wrong with you? You could have invented something in that two hours! You’ll never get that time back! And that girl is probably a runaway. That’s somebody’s daughter. You sicken me.” So I angrily grab the mouse, click the browser closed and pow !

This is my computer. My desktop background picture used to be one of my cars, but when I wasn’t paying attention my wife swapped it for a picture of the kids.

Believe me, she knew what she was doing. I’m sure this shot was staged. I can hear Lynette coaching them, “Natalia, could you look a little more disgusted? And, Sonny, go ahead and laugh a little bit harder at what a loser Daddy is.” It’s as if they’re trying to say, “It’s a miracle we’re even here with all the beating off you do. What did Mommy do, go to the hamper and squeeze out a tube sock?”

Let me try to end on a more positive note. This one involves another bathroom interruption but, this time, there was a nice ending. I had gotten up early one morning to do a bunch of radio interviews. In between, I sipped on my coffee and munched on a fiber bar. Well, of course, the bowels got moving, so I plopped down on the toilet. I didn’t bother to close the door, as it was just me and the kids at home, no nannies or maids to bust in.

The bathroom I’m referring to is small and windowless. Thinking I was alone, and just popping in for a quickie, I left the door ajar about a foot and a half. Partway through my deuce dropping, boom-boom, out goes the light. (Bonus points to anyone who got the Pat Travers reference there.)

Someone had walked past the bathroom, flipped off the light and kept walking, wordless. I quickly did the math and yelled out, “Sonny, did you shut off the light?” He said, “Oh, were you in there? I’m sorry.” I did a quick wipe, stood up and walked out of the bathroom. I reached for him, choking up a bit, “Don’t you ever apologize to me for that,” and squeezed him like he was a tube of toothpaste. I’m constantly railing about the wasted electricity in my home and he had proven, with one flip of a switch, that he actually listens to me. It was a great moment. I’ve never been so proud of him or so happy to have my rare alone time on the throne of my castle interrupted.

AS THIS BOOKis filled with advice for my kids, I’d like to take a little time to list the people that I hope they don’t grow up to be. Kids, pay attention. I’m laying down a preemptive disownment if you become this guy or gal.

Zombie Guy: Not naming names, but one of the guys that I employ took a ration of shit from me one day because he was wearing an Evil Dead T-shirt.

I just don’t get the fascination with the undead. We’re all undead. Big deal. And I feel like any one of us could outrun a zombie. They don’t run; they don’t even jog. They shuffle. It’s like being scared of the eighty-four-year-old guy dragging his oxygen tank through a casino.

It feels like there are a hundred shows and a million movies about zombies. Are we not satisfied with this topic? I keep seeing shit about the zombie apocalypse. I’m pretty sure we have a military that could handle that situation. A bunch of decomposing guys ambling toward you, mumbling “brains,” aren’t going to be much match for an M1 Abrams tank.