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

I’LL GET RIGHTout of the gate with an apology/explanation. I know that, before I had kids, I made a lot of proclamations that I would never become one of those celebrity blowhards who has kids, and then can’t stop talking about them and goes and writes a children’s book (I’m looking at you Jamie Lee Curtis, Paul McCartney and Madonna) or even worse, a parenting book.

But, as you’ll soon read and understand, raising kids is basically a problem you throw money at. Well, I have twins, so I need twice as much money to throw at the problem. Thus, this book. Please don’t loan it to your friend. Make them buy their own. In fact if you could plan a Nazi-esque book burning when you’re done with this copy so that it can’t be passed around, I’d really appreciate it.

This book will be full of tales of the misery that is parenting as a modern male. The days of Father Knows Best are long gone. It’s no longer enough to be just the breadwinner and disciplinarian. Dads today are expected to be earners, handymen, and spider killers, like we always were — but now all the mommy bloggers have demanded that we’re also diaper changers, meal makers and field trip chaperones, too.

Unlike other celebrity parenting books, this one won’t be an excuse for me to use my kids to talk about how great a dad and human being I am, with false humility. I can’t stand that bullshit when famous folk use their kids as human shields to get windy about how grounded they are. That’s just a way of being a blowhard by saying that they’re not a blowhard. I can’t stand when actors sit down with Billy Bush and say, “When I come home after I leave the set, all I see is a five-year-old who wants to wrestle with Daddy. He doesn’t know I’m such a superstar that I’ve had people taking my picture all day.” They’re essentially saying, “He doesn’t know how great I am!”

I’m also not going to tell you how I learn from my kids. Fuck that. I’m the grown-up. They and, subsequently, you as you read this, are learning from me. I’ve got no beef with her as an actress, but when Amy Adams won her Golden Globe she did one of those actressy things that drive me insane. She thanked everybody: costars, agents, managers, and so on. Then at the end she thanked her obnoxiously named child, Aviana, a name that I’m pretty sure she took from the sparkling water she was drinking on set. This kid, by her own admission, was not old enough to understand what Mommy was saying. So why did she thank her? Because the little tyke had taught her how to “accept joy and let go of fear.” Her daughter was three. She probably only taught Amy how to have a Guatemalan chick take care of her while Mama was on set all day. My twins have taught me basically nothing except that kids are expensive and have no gratitude.

I hate the parent-shaming crap that is so pervasive today. It’s like the guy who announces his wife is his best friend. He doesn’t mean it; he just does it to make the rest of us look like assholes.

As I write this book, there is an Apple commercial showing how I can be closer with my kids through apps. It shows happy dads connecting with their progeny by using apps to map the stars, garden and take pictures of tidal pools. You know, shit that I never do with my kids because I’m too busy earning the money to buy them the iPhones they use to ignore me. Ads like this are just not realistic. The only thing I do with my phone is watch a little porn, then call my agent and yell at him to find me work so that my kids can enjoy all those app-tivities with the nanny. If this ad were at all realistic, if it looked in any way like my life, it would show the dad screaming at the mother to get the glass replaced on her broken iPhone and then he and the kids staring at their phones while ignoring each other.

I know I’ve already made the lady readers’ uteruses pucker with my insensitivity. Better get used to it. You’re only three pages in, there’s plenty more to come. Listen, I understand that I’m not the world’s greatest dad. You know how I know? Because I was driving behind him the other day. I found myself stuck in traffic recently and noticed an SUV with the “You’re Driving Behind the World’s Greatest Dad” license plate frame. I immediately got mad at this jerk. I know that he didn’t get it for himself. His kids went to the mall, saw that and bought it for him. My problem is that he actually put it on his car. If it were me, this thing wouldn’t even leave the garage. It’s like the dads wearing those Rainbow Loom bracelets their kids make. Sure, smile when they give it to you, but don’t show up for work wearing it the next day. If your daughter brought home an orange freeway cone full of semen, and asked you to wear it like a clown hat, would you? If my kids brought me that license plate frame I’d tell them I was going to keep it in the trunk so it could be closer to my heart. Where are this guy’s friends? Why isn’t anyone telling him he’s an asshole? I know part of my rage is envy. I am jealous that this guy doesn’t care what people think of him. But I hate him for shoving his “greatestness” in the face of all of the other dads out there.

Not that I would want to be Father of the Year. Have you ever noticed how when you’re named Of the Year for anything it generally comes back to bite you in the ass? The Employee of the Year is always the one who gets caught embezzling and the Teacher of the Year always ends up on the news as a pedophile, so I choose to embrace my mediocrity.

One piece of dad shaming is close to home; in fact it’s on my coffee table right now. Underneath my wife’s Self magazine, which I argue in the narcissistic disaster we call America is a totally unnecessary publication, was a copy of Parents . I think we need magazines about how to focus on other people instead of ourselves. I don’t know why this was in my house. This is just a device to scare my wife and other rich white folk into not vaccinating their kids and feeling inadequate because they purchased their Christmas ornaments instead of making them by hand. Just like the activities in the Apple ad, no one does the shit this magazine is suggesting. I’m guessing the true purpose of this magazine is just to leave it around so when company comes over they think you’re a good parent. How about a magazine called Earner with me on the cover?

And I really resent it when people use their kids to try to make me feel guilty. I never use my kids in that “I have to spend time with my family so I can’t finish that project” kind of way. I also can’t stand people who act like they’re the only ones who have kids. You couldn’t show up for the job because you had to spend time with your kids? Well, what about me? I have two of them and I’m here waiting on your ass to arrive. I’m not saying that if you have a kid who is gravely ill you should leave him at the hospital to die so that you can help me. But I resent the kid excuse because it makes me feel like I’m the bad dad for compartmentalizing my family life and work life. Would I prefer to be at Disneyland with my kids? Sure, but I have to be on stage earning the bread. By the way, that’s a true story. I once returned from a live gig in Detroit to find that the whole family had gone to the Happiest Place on Earth while I was in the Crappiest Place on Earth.